


The Anderfel Champion

by ValerianCandy



Series: Knight-Commander [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Body Swap, Choose Your Own Adventure, F/F, F/M, Future Cassandra Pentaghast/Meredith Stannard, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, Modern Girl in Thedas, Monogamous Hawke/Merrill friendmance, Multi, OC background characters - Freeform, Relationships TBD by readers - Freeform, Self-Insert, polls, traumatized characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-06-28 06:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 46
Words: 196,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15702150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValerianCandy/pseuds/ValerianCandy
Summary: This is not the afterlife I had in mind.---Update schedule





	1. Part One: Templar

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Difficult Choices](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14923598) by [kimpossible](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimpossible/pseuds/kimpossible). 



* * *

Blessed are they who stand before

The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.

Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.

In their blood the Maker's will is written. 

 

_\- Benedictions 4:10-4:11_


	2. Knight-Commander

 

 

**Before Thedas**

I've been a daydreamer for as long as I can remember. When I was a child, my mother would have to pull me out of the way to keep me from walking into things or from crossing the street without looking. She averted all manner of other disasters just by keeping an eye on me. With all the window-gazing I was prone to do, finishing high-school says something about my determination. While Mom worried about my perceived lack of social activity in elementary, I was all good to play with my two friends. Usually we played football or held dodgeball matches during recess.

They probably regretted the day they allowed me to get a laptop, because I was glued to the screen for entire days. Showers and sleep were still part of my routine, so I wasn’t like the addicts who’d rather pee in a bottle than go to the toilet. My other hobby was watching House MD, Grey’s Anatomy and other doctor shows. Good thing I'm not squeamish about blood.

Gaming was more my father's thing. After my parents got divorced, I'd still visit him every weekend, and he'd let me do my own thing on my laptop. He played the heavy duty shooters and the Defiance-esque games and everything, I sat holed up in my room playing the Sims. I'm sorry, I meant torturing the Sims. No shame here, it’s what we all do.

His computer was a custom made thing with fans that could help lift a plane off the ground; my laptop was a small thing on its last legs by the time RPG's became a thing.

Oh, and yeah, I was around when MSN rose and fell. I'm 22. Yes, that age where you realize that you're not the force that keeps the universe going. Or life. Or anything, really. I studied accounting, miraculously found my first job in that field, and botched it within six months. They kept me on for another three while looking for my replacement. Joy of joys. The second job wasn't much better. Or should I say, _I_ wasn't much better.

Change of plans. Instead of looking for an accounting job, I took the first job within reach: washing dishes in a restaurant. I'd been washing dishes at home for years, which is obviously different from washing dishes in a restaurant, but whatever. It was an instant success. It might have been boring as Hell, and sometimes acted as a stage for Hell in my daydreams, but it got bread on the counter and a place to live in.

I completely forgot to mention how having a father with autism and ADHD hooked me up with autism and ADHD. My mother, and all the stepfathers that came and went, had no fucking idea how to deal with that. I was a total pushover, scrambling around to please everyone, ignoring my own feelings and denying my own problems because my mother and stepfather kept telling me that _I_ was making the problems. Thanks a lot, Mom.

Paranoia is my middle name. For whatever reason, sometimes it jumps out and convinces me that people are talking about me while I know perfectly well that the world doesn’t revolve around me. Maybe it’s undiagnosed narcissism. Maybe it’s delusions of grandeur.

Or maybe it’s just all the Red Lyrium underneath Kirkwall. Or the blood magic.

Because one day, I came back from another exhausting 12-hour day, took a shower and decided against better judgment to game a little before bed. I'm pretty sure I woke up with keyboard imprints on my forehead at five in the morning, with a blue screen o' death demanding attention, while rain was pouring in through the cracked window. Oh, yeah, and let's not forget the burglar. With a gun.

I think he was twitchy or something, because he spooked when I slammed my elbow against my desk as I fumbled to my feet. Next thing I knew, there was a bang, a flash, and piercing pain cracking through my skull. Getting shot in the head isn't nice. Screaming my head off because it hurts a lot isn't nice. Getting shot in the head twice while a criminal kicks you in the ribs and tells you to shut the fuck up isn't nice, either.

**\-----**

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 05:00 AM  
**

‘Waking up’ in an apartment not out of place in Sparta the movie is much more fun, but not as much fun as waking up in your own house after dreaming the head shot fiasco. The room I woke up in was blah, even when the sun only just peeked through slitted windows.  It was small and nearly empty and spoke of a no-nonsense person’s reign. A single bed shoved against the wall, covers tangled on the floor because I’d flailed my way out of them. A crude wooden nightstand with two drawers and a bare surface. A closet on the other side, a rack with three levels next to it. Sunlight reflected off metal. Some kind of bizarre decoration?

Wait a minute. If I got shot in the head, where’s the pain? Touching my head as carefully as I can, I tangle my fingers in my hair and search for blood, wounds, bullet fragments, anything. Hair brushes over my shoulder when I pull it aside-

My hair hasn’t been long since I was six. It hasn’t been blonde since I’d started dyeing it brown at thirteen, either. It’s soft and smooth, not crusted up with gore and sweat. The single bed doesn’t look like a hospital bed. No machines, no IV, no blaring alarms because I fell out of bed and accidently detached a dozen of life-supporting tubes and _what the fuck is that pot doing on the ground_?

This is bad. This looks every bit like a room that was supposed to look homely, but failed disastrously and knows it. It screams _mental institution_. Fuck. I look down at my hands. If I’m really in a mental institution, my nails will be short to the point of having bled when they were clipped. My friend’s suicide attempt has taught me that much.  I look down at my hands

_I’M NOT LOOKING DOWN AT **MY** HANDS. _

My own hands are small, because I’m a small person. Or I _was_ a small person. I’m taller now. But _me_ isn’t _me_ and I’m ridiculously tall and bulky. _Bulky_. I used to work out, lifting weights, but this body doesn’t belong to the Grethilda (yours truly) who deadlifted and squatted 25kgs thrice a week. This body belongs in _Behind Enemy Lines_. 

Oh God no, I’ve been in a 22-year long psychosis. I’ve been living in a padded cell for my entire life without even being aware of it. Oh God, what if I was in prison, which would explain my buffness, and they used me as a guinea pig for experimental brain transplantation or something. I believe that the _you_ that is _you_ is right at home in your brain, no soul or other spiritual attachments. Which means that a brain transplant transfers the _you_ that is _you_ into another body. Surely doctors believe me the same. Which means guards, locked doors, prison bars.

Unless they found a way to transplant the memories of someone who’d never broken a law in their life into my head. It makes a frightening amount of sense. Destroy the criminal’s mind, transplant their brain into a criminal who’s memories don’t allow for suppression, or a brain dead person, or a suicidal person, and pray for _nurture_ over _nature_. 

Wherever I am and whatever they did to me, I’m not staying around to face the aftermath.

As any sane person who wants to escape would do, I started snooping.

Not that looking around did me any good. The wardrobe revealed a few shirts, tunics, whatnot. There was only one skirt. No dress. Something that looked like leggings, meticulously folded and sorted color. By _color_. Whoever did _that_ is insane. Wait, if this _is_ a mental institution, it’s not that weird. Orderliness and all that. And I have to admit it’s easy on the eyes.

But what’s with the bright colors? Hospital clothes are drab and boring and _calm_. The brightest I’ve seen are bright yellow hospital gowns on Suzanne Young book covers. About fictional mental institutions. Gotta love the irony.

So what’s this? What’s with the god-awful bright yellow hexagon thing on a freaking red shirt? The thin yellow lines scream against the red background. I hold it in my hands and brush my thumb over the fabric. Rough cotton, sturdier than the shirts I buy at convection stores. Bigger than my size, too. Still… maybe it’s one of the oversized shirts I used to sleep in? A second-hand buy to snuggle in at night? The skirt at least tells me that I've hijacked a woman's body, or the body of a cross-dresser. Which would be fine, too, apart from the ‘do I pee standing or sitting down now’ dilemma.

Anyway, thinking about cross-dressing finally gets me to look further than my hands. She has scars. There are burns that haven't healed well, and thin lines on her legs and arms that hint at knives being involved. Something took out a good chunk of her right calf.

Son of a bitch, they torture people here. If my legs and arms look bad, what will my face look like? Someone give me a _fucking mirror_.

There's a bathroom, with a hole in the ground for a toilet at the end (ew), a sink to my left and a bathtub to my right. Everything looks like it was crammed in and is now stuck, to forever stand silent vigil long after their owner gets violently murdered by these crazy people that brought me here. The walls are plastered in the same drab beige as the rest of the place.

There's a mirror above the sink, and with leaden feet, I take a step toward it. OK, I can do this. I _should_ do this. Knowing what I look like will make it easier to get the fuck out of this place. Gripping the stone sink (that’s odd, isn’t it?), I pull myself in sight of the mirror.

Good glorious god, _are you fucking kidding me_?

Eyes so vividly blue they practically leap off the mirror. Frown lines around those eyes, dark circles underneath. Bristly eyebrows, mouth curved down in a permanent sneer. Framed by long, shiny blond hair.

"Shit. Oh _shit_ ," a melodious voice says, with hysterics underneath. I dig my nails into my palms so I don’t laugh or scream. Her voice is more beautiful than mine could ever hope to be, because I’ve had partial vocal cord paralysis since I’d been born, resulting in a creaky hoarse voice that I hated. Surgery had made it better, but not like this.

“At least I’m not in a mental hospital or a padded cell.” I mutter to the me-who-is-not-me. New me’s voice sounds low and somewhat sharp. My new voice, apparently. The bad thing is: I recognize it. Had I mentioned yet that I've played Dragon Age? The second installment is my favorite game, because who doesn't love Hawke?

Hint: I’m not Hawke. I didn't even get lucky enough to get stuffed into Merrill's or Isabela's body or even some random NPC. By now, I would've been happy to have hijacked Verania. Or Hadriana, Magister/Slaver situation notwithstanding. Hell, Bethany would've been glorious. Even Carver would’ve been fine, acute transsexuality aside. I’d just hole up somewhere and make friends with Krem by the time Inquisition rolls around.

I'm pretty sure I haven't mentioned yet that I'm 100% pro-mage, to the point that my father peered at my screen with a frown on his face, asking me if the burning church was a good thing because I was cheering. Yeah, I'm _that_ kind of player. The leave-your-morals-at-the-launch-screen player. The kind of player that has done both a Darkest Timeline and a Kill Everyone playthrough. The characters are real to me until the screen goes black.

I think this might be punishment for my blatant disregard of innocent lives.

Something hums on the peripheral of my mind, a slow seeping song that tugs at me. Sadly, it's not because I'm a renegade mage. I stomp back to the bedroom and open the other door, to what's apparently a small living room. Oh, and I have a kitchen. I know how to cook, so I can cook for myself. And I'll probably be all by myself for the rest of my borrowed life. Yay.

Unless you count Templars as company.

One last thing before I start screaming in absolute horror, and praying to Andraste and the Maker and any Old God that wants to listen (though five are out because they're dead.) I follow the song and end up at a weapon rack. There's another rack next to it with minimalist armor. It has no decorations save for the Templar sword. Joy. What's more disconcerting is the sword in the stand.

I pick it up, and the hum becomes louder and more insistent, as does the song. Where first there were distant nonsensical chill-inducing whispers, now I make out a word or two. They’re underlined by a lazy thrum that might just be a heartbeat of something big.

_Fallen… endure… wait… found…_

Er… this is creepy as fuck.

Warmth seeps from my fingers into the rest of my body. Obviously, Hawke and company have made the trip to the Deep Roads. Shit, I have absolutely no idea if Hawke's a man, a woman, or even a mage. And which sibling is alive and who died? I guess I'll ask my assistant when I get to it. Nothing will faze her, that I know for sure.

Because the sword I have in my hands? It’s made out of Red Lyrium. And then I do scream. I clamp my hand between my teeth as to not alert anyone.

Though I'm sure the Templars are used to the madness that is Meredith fucking Stannard by now.

**\-----**

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 07:32 AM**

It isn't as bad as I thought it would be. When I finally emerge from my apartment in the Templar barracks, probably way too late but hey I'm in charge here so who the fuck gives a shit, I'm wearing armor (thank you, Elsa, my dearest Tranquil assistant, for your unblinking lecture about where bits and pieces go) and I brought the Red Lyrium sword. If I can sneak away, I'll drop by Hawke's and get Sandal to look at it. Anything to get the song out of my head. I wish I could go by Anders's afterward to get looked at myself, but I don't really feel like facing a spirit of Justice. Even if I'm technically on his side.

Wait. I’m in Meredith Stannard’s body. But I’m not Meredith Stannard. I’m not from the Fade. What does that make me? A spirit? A demon? Just another obligatory Modern Girl In Thedas? Speaking of Meredith, if me being here makes her an abomination, where is _she_ in my head? Are we _one_? Have we merged? God, please don’t let her be shoved into a dark corner of my mind, seething and frothing at the mouth, waiting for just the right moment to give me an aneurysm or something. That’d be just my luck.

I stop dead in my tracks, obscured by crates and boxes, and frown myself into a migraine, reaching out with my mind.

_Hellooo, anyone home?_

Nothing. Hm. Let’s try that again. Let’s crank up the flattery, too.

 _My most favorite Knight-Commander_ _in the world, are you present? Are you well? Hello? I swear I’ll take good care of your body. I swear I won’t decorate your apartments with the pinkest pink of fluff. Hey, that’s a good idea._

Yeah, my flattery sucks. And Meredith doesn’t answer, if she’s even there. What had Anders said? “I can’t discern between my thoughts and Justice’s thoughts”? Coming from the guy who can have black-outs and regularly gets himself hijacked by a murderhappy spirit, it’s probably best not to put too much stock in anything he says about spirits.

Have I ever heard _Solas_ speak about possession? He’s the Fade expert. But no, I can’t remember. The closest thing was how he taught himself to be safe from possession or something, and how spirits are easily corrupted into demons.

Hm… I think I’d be a Pride Demon. Or a Hunger Demon. Maybe that’s why I get hangry. Yeah, no, I’m not really a demon or a spirit. So I can’t reach Meredith, which is probably for the best (imagine the arguments. She’d break me by sleep deprivation alone.), but I might have her memories. Maybe. What do I know about her? She had a sister, Amelia, who got possessed by a demon and murdered her entire village.

… Wasn’t there an Amelia in Honnleath? Nah, timeline doesn’t add up. Plus, Meredith’s entire family is dead. Her mentor is also dead. And that’s about the extent of what I know about her. I try to envision a younger Meredith, playing tag in a village square, followed by a blurry-faced younger sister. Maybe she has blond hair too, or maybe she’s a brunette. (Maybe she had buck teeth. _Ugh._ )

It all leads to absolutely nothing, and with a shrug, I decide to let it go. Cole might know, if I live long enough to see Dragon Age 9:40. Now, back to business. I stride into the courtyard, shoulders straight and chin held high.

A Templar in the courtyard sits on a crate, legs dangling off and his head leaning against the wall, snores coming from his wide opened mouth. I roll my eyes and shake my head and leave him be.

"Knight-Commander," a familiar voice greets me in a serious tone, and I nearly jump out of my skin. In a reflex that's probably more muscle-memory than instinct, I'm holding the Red Lyrium sword to Orsino's throat.

I’ve always thought elves looked weird and otherworldly in DA2. I was wrong. They _are_ otherworldly, plain and simple. My eyes immediately glue themselves to his pointed ears. _Pointed ears_. Shit, don’t stare too much, he might figure out something is wrong. With effort, I tear my eyes from his ears and look at his face. Jesus Christ in Thedas, how can anyone in their right minds make them _servants_? Everything about him, from his arched eyebrows to his smooth chin and his sharp jawline, speaks of nobility.

Oh, yeah, and fear. Because y’know, I’m holding a sword to his throat. Oops.

His eyes (eerily moss green and _vivid_ ) are as wide as saucers, and people around us stop talking and bustling and watch us in an eerie silence.

"Apologies. I have not slept well and find myself particularly agitated today."

I try to force Meredith's harsh, low voice into something resembling friendliness, but I might as well give up. Every word comes out like I'd much rather smite the heck out of Orsino than exchange courtesies. I'll have to work on that. Oh, and maybe dropping the glowing red sword will encourage friendship as well.

The sword disappears into the sheath I strapped on, and Orsino's eyes follow it, his lips pulled into a thin line. He looks uncertain and I sigh, and cringe inwardly when even the sigh sounds like an insult. Good god, no wonder this woman is always grumpy.

"The escape still bothers you?" Orsino asks, following in my steps. Wait, people escaped? Good for them. Can I buy them passage on the next boat to Rivain?

"No." I say, deciding that being short is probably the best way to avoid giving myself away. The Templars can't get suspicious of me. Sadly, this also means I can't just throw open the doors of the Circle and let everyone out, because that'd end in a massacre.

"I see." Orsino says, sadly giving me nothing else to determine _when_ I ended up. Obviously we're past Act 1, because lyrium sword. But what else? I frown, trying to remember the details. My ADHD renders everything that's not today into this giant soup of ‘has been’ and picking out things is a hell of a job for scatterbrain me. I remember irrelevant little things like Hawke's sarcastic comment about boneless women flopping around, but that's not a memory from Meredith, sadly. It also makes me fight the guffaw that wants to come out, and Orsino gives me a strange, questioning look. I shake my head and hope he doesn't ask.

"If I may ask..."

"Ask."

Maybe I can get through DA2 with one-syllable words like: ‘Yes, no, fuck, die, Templar, maleficar, elf, Harrowing, stop, Tranquil, sword, fetch.’ and avoid every other conversation ever.

_‘I suspect you have questions.’_

_‘Nope, Fen’Harel. Fetch.’_  Oh God, don’t laugh. Don’t laugh.

"Do you still want Hawke present at today's Harrowing? He has only just taken his vows and... might not be up for it."

"Hawke?" I ask, giving him an incredulous look. Hawke's supposed to be pro-mage, damn it! And the game has never given me the option to have Hawke as a freaking Templar, anyway.

"Carver Hawke?" Orsino asks, furrowing his brow, head tilted to the side.

"Right. Of course."

Why is he still looking at me? Oh wait, he asked me a question. Right, answer it.

"No. Send him to..."

Light bulb moment.

"Send him home to fetch the dwarf. The one that only says 'Enchantment'."

Orsino blinks at me, even more confused, but gives me a nod and finally leaves, his robes flapping around his feet. The irrational irrelevant thought of ‘Do they wear anything under that?’  surfaces in my head and I squash it down. Back off, down and shiver, good ol’ perverted mind of mine.

**\-----**

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 07:58 AM**

"Knight-Commander," Cullen greets me, his voice rising a notch. Right, Cullen's in Kirkwall. Try not to drool all over his macaroni hairdo, Grethilda. Do I address him with Knight-Captain, or Cullen? Oh God, strike me with lightning, please.

"Rutherford."

His last name is probably safest, and I'm halfway past him when I realize he's looking at me with a ‘Warden, find my missing pet rock’ kind of look. You know, the look every villager ever gives you in Origins? Stifling a sigh, I turn back to him, really wishing that I could just crawl back into Meredith's uncomfortable bed and skip this day. He blanches, and I realize that I'm probably turning the full force of Meredith's Glare on him. It’s not my fault that Meredith's resting face sits somewhere between ‘You are unworthy of breathing in my presence.’ and ‘Die maleficar, die.’

"Something wrong, Rutherford?" I ask, trying in vain to bring something other than agitation into Meredith's voice. He blushes and clears his throat, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him. Does the man blush at _everyone_? Meredith's what, ten years older?

The realization that I have absolutely no idea how old Meredith is hits me, and I squelch the panic that follows. I also know nothing about her personal life save from hear-say about a sister that turned into an abomination, but I doubt her personal life is a topic during dinner-parties. If she ever goes to those.

"Well... Initiate Wilmod has disappeared. And there is word among the new recruits about a... private initiation. Nonsense, of course."

Wilmod. The name doesn't ring a bell at all, but the rest of what he says does. A private initiation? Oh fuck. This is the opening quest of act 2.

"Leave it be, Rutherford," I say, because there's no way in Hell I'm letting him face a Templar abomination, Hawke or no Hawke. Not after Kinloch. He opens his mouth to protest and I _GLARE_ at him. He blanches and sputters and I nearly burst into laughter at his conflicted state.

"Cancel today's Harrowing, as well."

At this, Cullen becomes even paler, impossible as it sounds. He takes a step back, hands curling into fists and his mouth opening and closing like he turned into a fish in Templar armor. (He’d be a salmon, stubbornly swimming upstream only to couple with a hundred female fish, then die. God, that’s depressing. I’m never getting the image of a human-sized salmon in Templar armor out of my mind, either. Not until I bleach out my eyeballs. Joy.)

He pinches the bridge of his nose, shoulders raised and set, fists clenching and unclenching. "Will we perform the Rite, then?"

For a second, it's tempting. The game tells us hardly anything about the Rite of Tranquility, not enough to piece together what it actually involves. Inquisition gives us a breadcrumb about how it's reversible, but nothing else. Well, except for Seekers. And only the Lord Seeker knows how to make more Seekers. 

I'll just head into my office and interrogate Elsa about how she was made Tranquil, later.

"No," I tell him honestly, and his shoulders lower. He stops pressing his lips together, blood flows back in.  The old carefree Cullen is still in there somewhere, because the scowl leaves his face and he places his hands on the pommel of his sword. Not in a threatening way, but in a ‘I have no clue what to do with my hands’ way.

"I believe the apprentice isn't ready yet."

"I see. I'll inform Orsino."

"No. I will discuss this with him myself."

I look over his head for a few seconds (Meredith is tall, damn) and meet his expectant gaze when I lower my eyes to him. I shake my head.

"Rutherford, when have you last had a day off?" I ask him, and his forehead creases into a frown.

"A day off?" he asks, gaping at me. The Templar Salmon is back, I guess.

Shit, Templars don't get days off? What kind of a place is this?

Oh right, it's Kirkwall.

"I don't remember..." he says, trailing off, eyes distant.

I chuckle and give him a nod.

"It's about time then. Take today off and do... whatever it is you do when you're not here. And stop worrying about Wilmod, I'll handle it." I tell him, and he stares at me like I've just grown a second head.

"I'm serious, Rutherford. Go away before I have them _drag_ you out."

The threat sounds convincing enough, because he gives me a nod, expression still stuck on ‘WTF just happened’, before he trudges away.

It's not like he ever did anything other than just stand there and be pretty, right? _Right_?


	3. Radical

\-----

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 12:15 PM**

“So… let me get this straight,” I say to Elsa, who leans against the wall next to the door leading out of Meredith’s office, with her hands clasped together. Her Tranquil robes flow around her, roughly the same red and yellow as the Chantry robes. I’m getting so tired of seeing Chantry robes everywhere. Maybe I should have them banned. She’d look better in jeans and a T-shirt. Without the Brand on her forehead, she could’ve been a successful model in my world. Until she reached the ripe old age of thirty. Hell, with enough popularity and sway she might’ve made the Brand a popular tattoo...

It’s painful to see, red and angry against her skin. Her blonde bangs are braided, two braids looping around her head and two others brushing her chin. My fingers itch to do something about the asymmetricity. I can’t put her in a headlock and cut some inches off. She wouldn’t object… but no, the Tranquil deserve their autonomy. Bitching over hairstyles is stupid.

“The lyrium-infused brand overloads a mage’s mana supply. All of their mana flows back into the brand, rendering them Tranquil,” I recap. Elsa nods.

“If Templars have to perform an emergency Rite, they bind their powers together to perform a collective Holy Smite, draining their mana. Am I right when I assume this is just as painful as being branded?”

She nods again, her expression composed. Every now and then she blinks, and I’m pretty sure she remains unfazed under my questioning. A Templar or a mage would  have alarm bells blaring in their head. As a Tranquil, Elsa couldn’t care less.

The prospect of a bunch of Templars randomly deciding ‘let's make this one Tranquil for shits and giggles’ and being able to do it without supervision is terrifying. I shove the thought out of my mind.

“What does the emergency Rite look like?” I ask her. She raises her eyebrows, creases appearing on her forehead. The Brand creases with it. What will it look like when she’s old, gray and wrinkled?

Dad’s insistence that I think long and hard on the two tattoos I’d wanted makes sense now. (I’m still a little pissed about losing them. Meredith has zilch tattoos. Can’t wait to get her inked. A pink fluffy unicorn with rainbows coming out of its ass would be a good starting point… Friendship is magic and all that crap. Muahaha.)

Maybe I should get the Liberalist mark inked on her forehead. Now _that_ would be something for the nobility of Kirkwall to gossip about.

Eksa shrugs. “From what I’ve heard and read, it looks like a pillar of white light. I have never seen it myself. It is not something they perform often.”

That’s good to hear. Let’s keep it that way, yes? Unless… not having a Brand would be better for the Seekers I’ll make in the future.

Seekers. No Brand. Shit.

Poor Cassandra.

A hasty knock on the half-opened door makes me turn around in my chair. Carver starts at the sudden movement and trips his way into my office, Sandal the dwarf at his side. For whatever unfathomable reason, it's hours after I sent him off. Kirkwall is large, but not _that_ large, right? Oh, wait… he's probably had a frantic shouting match with mage Hawke, because if Templar Carver (or Carver at all) means anything, it's mage Hawke.

"I'm sorry, Knight-Commander, but something came up and..."

"I think you mean: Hawke happened," I interrupt while suppressing an eyeroll. My eyes are going to roll straight out of their sockets one day, if I keep this up.

Carver clears his throat and blushes. “Yes. Well. Ah.”

He gestures towards Sandal.

"Sandal, as requested. Say ‘Hello’ to the Knight-Commander, Sandal.”

Sandal gives me a bright smile and says: “Hello!” with a little wave. I can’t help but smile. He’s just so sweet. My fingers itch to pinch his cheek like one of those creepy old grandmothers. Oh Thedas, what are you doing to me?

Carver’s expression tells me ‘What could you possibly want with _Sandal?_ ’ and belatedly, I realize that I've probably induced a whirlwind of utter terror in the Hawke household. Poor Bodahn. I wonder how long it'll be before Mage Hawke storms the Gallows, demanding him back.

"Do inform your family that I'll be returning him shortly and unharmed. Emphasize _unharmed_ , if you would. I need him solely to examine something."

‘Something’ being a madness-inducing sword, but Carver doesn't need to know that. Maybe he already does, seeing how I nearly beheaded Orsino with it on sheer reflex in public. Civilians beware the madwoman with a sword.

"Of course, Knight-Commander. By your leave."

"Go. We'll talk later."

The thrice-damned default goodbye sentence slips out of my mouth and I roll my eyes, squashing the urge to bash my head against the desk. I look at Sandal instead. His eyes are unnervingly gray-blue with blotches of… light? Lyrium? Ugh, I don’t want to think about lore theories right now. His straw colored hair is combed back and still manages to be _fluffy_. I want to reach out and ruffle it, but resist the urge.

"Enchantment," he says with a bright smile, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He wears a red and gold doublet (I feel sorry for the poor souls who make those things, God knows it must’ve taken weeks) and beige pants. A short doublet and pants, because dwarf. Even if he’s supposedly an elf/dwarf hybrid. Those hybrids end up non-elven every time, which is weird. Convenient, if you’re born in an Alienage and they hide your existence until you’re old enough to join human society. Damning if you’re born from an affair between a Dalish and a human, like Feynriel.

"Yes, I guess you could say that, little guy," I mutter. I stifle a yawn behind my hand. My soul for a cup of coffee. Tevinter and Antiva probably has the stuff, drinking it black or with sugar and cream respectively. Kirkwall just has bitter tea with unsanitary water, which may or may not have a splash of decaying corpse in it. Joy of joys. With my bad luck, I'll die before the week is out, from some obscure disease modern medicine has squashed years ago.

"Well, straight to business, then."

I unsheathe the Red Lyrium sword. A high-pitched _zzzzingggg_ reverberates through the room and makes my ears beep. Go away, tinnitus.

Sandal looks at the sword like it's a common houseplant, not a sword made out of the effing _Taint_. He doesn’t react to the sound, either. Did he even hear it? Was it even outside my head? Should I ask him? I don’t know...

"Can you do anything with this? I don't know, cleanse it?"

"Enchantment!"

Yeah, thanks, but I don't speak Savant. He takes the sword from me and staggers, nearly toppling over. A harsh, barking laugh comes out my mouth and I cringe at my new voice. I want a refund. And coffee. And my life back.

"Here," I say, taking the sword from him and pursing my lips, looking for a place to lay it down on. After a moment of deliberation, I use the sword to scrape all the files and other stuff from my desk, inwardly cackling gleefully when the reports scatter through the room. Wait, Elsa will see it as her duty to clean everything up. Shit.

Oh right, Elsa. Is still here. In the room. Oops.

It's uncanny how the Tranquil just fade into the background within a moment’s notice. Still against the wall, her hands now clasped behind her back, she stares in the distance with a blank expression on her face.

I really, really hope the Antivan Crows never enlist Tranquil. They don't fear, they do as they're told no matter what you ask them to do, and they don't ask questions. Ever. Wait... They don’t ask questions. So I can make Elsa my main messenger, my mediator? Who would suspect a Tranquil of being pro-mage?  

"Elsa," I say, wheels turning in my head.

"Yes, Knight-Commander?" she asks in her flat tone. I've always thought her voice actress botched the whole Tranquil tone, even wondered if she was secretly a spy for Orsino, but in reality her voice is flat and monotone.

God, isn’t she dying from heat in that Chantry/Circle trenchcoat thing of hers? The coat is dark blue and the shirt underneath red, and both are covered with yellow starbursts. As if the Brand doesn’t scream _Chantry property_ . Also, WTF is the beige thing wrapped around her waist, tied neatly with red fabric? A symbol of ‘purity’? Even though _everyone_ knows unspeakable things happen to the Tranquil living in a Circle? In Kirkwall, at least...

"Find me as much red ink as you can find, and accompany me to the repository, specifically the phylactery chamber."

She leaves without comment, and I gesture to my chair.

"Sit, Sandal. God knows I already hate this desk."

Sandal regards me with serious, knowing eyes, and clambers on the chair in silence. Not even a cheery "Enchantment!" to let me know if he approves.

Oh well.

\-----

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 01:00 PM**

The Circle's phylactery chamber is in the basement. More precisely, it spans the entire basement. Every available surface is packed with vials of blood, and I pick up the nearest vial to see if it's been labeled. Thank my lucky stars for labels. It reads ‘Grace’. I blink. Grace. Has Hawke saved her yet? Did Anders kill her? Was that even Grace or was it some other girl? Damn. Curse my non-existent memory to hell and back. My ears pop, instantly filled by a faint hum. Damn underground air pressure.

So. I cheated to get in here. The absent guard is drinking his weight in Chantry-sponsored ale in the Hanged Man, courtesy of _moi_. Origins’ mage origin saved me from a major blunder. Thanks, Lily and Jowan. I promise I’ll bail you out of the Aeonar. A polite request might be sufficient.

“Put the box on that table.” I point to the nearest available surface. As soon as Elsa puts down the box filled with inkwells and quills, I grab one of each and stare dumbly at them. Paper might be a good idea, as I can’t send my scribbled hand per raven. I like having two hands.

“Did you bring pa- ah, thanks. You’re a sweetheart,” I say when Elsa digs through the wooden box, handing me a scroll of blank vellum. Finally, a use for the god-forsaken stuff. Even the dumbest bandits lugged blank scrolls around in Origins, I used to end up with dozens of them. Destroyed them by the bunch. Elsa doesn’t react to my endearment and I shrug.

_~~Request: Lily. Thanks. Stannard.~~ _

Hm… Maybe I should be more specific. As amusing as it would be to have multiple Lily’s shipped over. Post-order disgraced Chantry initiates. Heh.

“Elsa, how do I address whoever is in charge of the Aeonar?”

Elsa blinks.

“That would be Divine Beatrix III.”

Fuck my life.  

What begun as a faint thrum in my head turns into a roar. Sweat rolls down my forehead and temples, pain fades in and out of existence behind my eyes, in tandem with exploding and imploding lights. Bile rises in the back of my throat. I stagger and lean against the table. My skin tingles and my scalp feels like it’s stretched tight over my skull. Pin-pricks dance over my skin. What the fuck?

Blinking the lights away doesn’t work. My eyes dart from place to place, surveying them. Huh, they aren’t my imagination. It’s the phylacteries. For whatever reason, they’re glowing a growing bright blue, shimmering and pulsating. My shoulder muscles lock up and I rotate my neck, wincing at the loud popping sound.

“Oh fuck this,” I mutter to myself, swallowing bile around the lump in my throat. Time to take a leap of faith.

_Dear Mother Dorothea,_

_You don’t know me and I don’t know you. Not yet, anyway. We have a mutual friend in Sister Leliana. I can tell you things about her, but I’ll keep it short: Marjolaine’s betrayal, a dream about darkness and falling, a blooming rose on a dying bush, and Andraste’s Grace._

_I’m sorry for the scare, but I need your help. ~~I know I was am one of the most brutal Knight-Commanders in the Order, but~~ things aren’t the way they were before. My values, morals and goals have changed. I have prayed and sought guidance from the Maker, and the Maker gave me peace. _

_There is a girl by the name of Lily in the Aeonar. I wish for her to be transferred to the Gallows. Her… history will help me change the animosity between my charges and my Templars._

_~~Also: Jowan. Needed.~~ ~~Star-crossed lovers and stuff.~~ _

_Please. For a better world for all of us._

_~~Desperately,~~ _

_Meredith_

“Copy this,” I order Elsa, and she starts scribbling away, her eyes darting from the letter to her own parchment. Her handwriting is much more readable than mine, considering how I still struggle with the quill and right-handedness. I’m a leftie, god-damn it. Writing with my right hand is like trying to pick a lock with my tongue. 

Pain stabs between my eyes, and I stifle a groan. Maybe I should just blow this place up. Whatever magic they use to make phylacteries and keep the blood from clotting, it’s obviously something evil. Why else would it make me feel like I’m going to drop dead if I stay for more than five minutes?

Kirkwall is the biggest city in the Free Marches and the Grand Cleric is here. Maybe I should pay her a visit first, to find out if I can arrange anything about the phylacteries in Denerim. Probably better than going back upstairs, grabbing the nearest blunt weapon, and smashing all of the vials like a barbarian.

"Sorry, Elsa. I must ask you to haul everything out and put it back where you found it."

Elsa nods and does as she's told, hefting the box on her hip. The vials tinkle against each other. The further upstairs we go, the warmer and less stale the air becomes. I accompany Elsa to the repository, which spans the underground level above the phylactery chamber, and help her put everything back where it belongs.

\-----

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 01:15 PM**

On the way back to my office, we pass Alrik, who has a Tranquil on her knees

I've crossed the space and given him a damn satisfying right hook before he even sees me coming. The girl scrambles out of the way. Alrik picks himself up off the floor and glares, until he realizes that he's glaring at his Knight-Commander.

"Knight-Commander," he says, his voice icy and his cheeks red with indignation. I narrow my eyes _._ He brushes off his armor and has the gall to look like someone caught him cheating at Wicked Grace instead of... whatever he'd been planning. At least I was on time. At least now I can put a stop to this kind of thing.

"Get out," I snap. He looks at me, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together.

"Excuse me?" he asks, puffing out his chest like he’s a rooster. Now isn’t the time for Templar Salmon to acquire a feathered friend, so I shove the image out of my mind.

"You heard me. Get out. You are hereby removed from the Order. Good fucking riddance."

"You can't-"

"Oh, I can. Now _out_."

He _shoves_ me when he passes me. His face is flushed with anger, his teeth bared, hand curled into a tight fist. Someone chuckles from behind and I whirl around, coming face to face with Thrask.

I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from bursting into Brave’s theme song, to be honest. He’s even more ginger than a co-worker of mine everyone nicknamed ‘Ginger’. His mustache flows into a thick goatee. One of my coworkers tried to grow a goatee and it ended in a bushy disaster.

Thrask is one of the good ones, er… right up until he starts a conspiracy to overthrow Meredith. (If he hadn’t had Hawke’s sibling/lover/friend kidnapped, he would’ve still been the good guy.) He gives me a nod and I nod back, and we part ways.

Maybe Hawke won't have to wade their way through a group of Templars and mages to rescue their whoever-gets-abducted, after all. I can only hope.

And pray what I just did doesn't come back to bite me in the ass. Imagine the butterfly effect. Alrik as Red Templar general instead of Samson by the time Inquisition rolls around.

Yes, my mind really makes connections like that. It’ll drive me insane before Red Lyrium does.

I turn to the Tranquil girl. Her skin is dark as rich soil. Light brown bangs fall over her left eye, her Chantry trenchcoat dusty and tearing at the seams. She regards me with the usual blank expression and cool brown eyes. Her dark eyebrows are bushy and thick, her lips full and prominent. Where Elsa is daylight, this Tranquil reminds me of a darker Pocahontas with lighter hair.

Speaking of which: damn you Bioware. Wasn’t inverting Deanarys Targaryen in Danarius enough? Was throwing a magicless Tranquil Elsa from Frozen in the mix really necessary? I’m glad I never sent David Gaider the peanut butter cups I read he favors.

“Thank you. His interference distracted me from my duties. My name is Niana. You’re the Knight-Commander,” she says in a bland monotone.

OK, take a deep breath. Blink the threatening tears away. For God’s sake, don’t scrunch up your face like you bit into a lemon. She can’t help the fact she sees rape as a distraction from her duties. And you don’t want to punch her, you want to punch Alrik. _Again_. Better yet, I’ll shove my sword into Justice’s hands and sing a Disney villain song when he lobs Alrik’s head off. Shit, I should’ve detained him and shoved him into solitary instead of letting him go. Tossed the key into a lava pit or something.

“That’s all right,” I tell her. “He won’t bother anyone else again, if I can help it. In the Gallows, anyway. I won’t stand for it any longer.”

I should find a safe place for the Tranquil to stay. Preferably in my office. Yeah, that’s perfect for the time being. One at a time, with Niana as the first. I smile at her.

“Say, how does assisting me for a while sound to you?”

Niana shrugs. “As agreeable as any duty the Chantry gives me.”

Ugh. “That’s settled then,” I say, my lips itching to grimace. “Elsa will accompany you to the clinic in Darktown for an examination and healing, should you need it… Don’t mention anything about me to the healer, yet."

The two Tranquil girls look at each other and that’s sufficient introduction, I guess. Oh well. I don’t have time for this shit, I need to lie down and die. Cause of death: phylactery-induced migraine. Does that make the Templars or mages the perpetrator? Whatever, dead me won’t give a shit.

“Buy the healer a mini-banquet. Oh, and get the letter to Mother Dorothea. Last seen in Lothering. No clue where she lives now. Now off with you two so I can sleep like the dead.”

\-----

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 03:02 PM**

"Not a chance."

"But-" says Ser-Whatever-His-Name-Is. He barged into my office half an hour ago and is _still_ ranting. Thank God for my one-hour nap. Even though it included a terrifying visit to the Fade. Apparently it’s open season on my soul. Ever had dreams where you realize you went to school naked? Except this time, a surprisingly large variety of demons chased me all over Kirkwall while my (nude) legs felt like lead. Yeah, fun fun fun.

I couldn’t do anything, captive in my own head. At least dream-me is a pro at dodging ice projectiles. Thanks, Despair Demons, a zig-zagging marathon was just what I needed to feel refreshed. The Desire Demons were fun to ogle, thank fuck. Dream-me would’ve pounced on one if I hadn’t been occupied by not getting roasted to death by a bunch of Slugs On Fire.

Maybe I should start writing a will for when a Desire Demon fucks me into oblivion. Maybe I should strangle them with those necklaces they wear. ‘Wait, why aren’t you moving? Huh, my bad, sorry. Excuse me, I’m wasting daylight.’

Ser-Whatever clears his throat. I have no fucking clue who he is, other than ‘a Templar’. He’s bald save for a thick black mustache, which twitches whenever he sneers at me. His skin is yellowish brown and marred by old scars. I’m no doctor, but it looks like he stitched some of them up himself, and neglected a few others. His face is a landscape of stern lines and puffed out cheeks, muddy eyes glaring at me. I bet he’s counting to ten inside his head, trying not to throttle me.

Something about his coloring is off. Maybe he’s denying his Antivan heritage and dyes his mustache black with coal dust. Maybe his parents were star-crossed lovers, heirs to the thrones of Nevarra and Orlais, two countries at war.

Wait, what. God, get your head out of the clouds, Grethilda. This guy just has a black beard and a dark skin and that’s it, no forbidden love needed. Besides, he might as well have been the child of two mages, or a mage and a Templar. It’s realistic, and depressing.

"No is no and it will remain a 'no'." I repeat, gritting my teeth.

Ser’s disgusted noise makes Cassandra sound like a mewling kitten. He throws his hands in the air, huffing out a breath through his nose. His lips twist into a sneer, his teeth bared.  

"But he killed Templars in the Chantry! He killed a _Tranquil_ in the Chantry!"

Oh, he’s talking about Anders. Darktown is overflowing with apostates, but sure, I’ll know who you’re talking about if you don’t mention names beyond ‘the apostate from Darktown’.

"That he did," I say reasonably. Ser Whatever blinks at me, his expression going blank with incomprehension. I sigh and make a show of stacking random papers on my desk. Let him stew for a few seconds. He deserves it.

"He's also the only thing keeping Darktown and Lowtown's people _alive_. So no, Ser, I am not authorizing a search. Leave the man be. And don’t you dare instigate mob justice."

"But he's an abomination!"

" _I know_!" I yell at him, fighting the urge to punch him in the face. I guess Meredith has anger issues. Great. I clench my hands into fists and keep them at my sides instead of breaking his nose.

"I know, and we are going to do nothing about it. I don't want to hear another word unless he burns down a Chantry."

Ehm.

Ser Whatever’s stare is just as incredulous as Cullen's had been when I told him to take the day off, and I jab a finger at him.

"And if I find out that you did something without my authority, you'll find yourself on the streets with Samson and Alrik before you can say 'Smite'. No salary, no lyrium. Understood?"

He shrinks back as if I’d hit him, eyes wide and mouth open. After standing there frozen for a few seconds, he nods vigorously.  

"Good. Now leave."

He's out the door before anyone can say 'Smite'. Heh, good boy.

Would Samson want his position back? Leaving the door to my office wide open, I make my way to the courtyard. Thieves and apostates, go ahead and snoop. It's not like anything in there is mine, and I have no idea what most is used for anyway.

In the courtyard, I gesture for Carver to meet me. He does so, his face ashen in anticipation. Good God, stop thinking I'll lob your head off already.

"Knight-" he begins, and I cut him off with a gesture. Fuck titles.

"Go to the docks and bring me Samson," I tell him. "In one piece and _unharmed._ Tell him he's getting his position back. Or even better, tell him he's getting Alrik's position. And if he doesn't want it, I'll find a way for him to get a regular decreasing dose of lyrium to get off the blasted stuff."

Doctor’s don’t prescribe decreasing dosages for shits and giggles. Cullen was an idiot for quitting cold turkey. In fact, I’ll prove it. Starting tomorrow, I’ll decrease my dosage by a measly teaspoon a week. Yeah, it’ll take years and won’t help the older veterans, but it’s better than vomiting up my lungs.

Caver's mouth falls open. Am I going too fast with this? Maybe I should tone down the savior complex and act more like Meredith. But it's not like we ever saw Meredith until the end of Act 2, when the Qunari go on murder rampages. Oh, shit, right, I'll have to do something about that, too. Where did Isabela say she found the book?

Carver leaves quickly enough when I shoo him out. Using him as an errand boy is damn amusing.

\-----

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 04:38 PM**

Hawke happens. I notice her arrival because I’m in the Gallows courtyard on the balcony, above the spot where Cullen usually is. As I’m obscured by the biggest statue (the abominable one with the useless wings that’ll never be able to lift its entire weight, the two-bladed staff and… spikes? Pincers? I don’t even want to get close enough to see what they are), I can see her coming while she doesn’t see me.

Maybe I can have the statues’ feet encased in cement, or weighed down, or maybe I should have their heads covered in steel so they’ll fall on their faces if they’re ever animated. Ha, watching them flail around would be funny. But, back to Hawke.

For… reasons (appreciating the phenomenon that is Hawke, mainly), I abandon my investigation of Kirkwall’s statues.

Hawke is the striking image of her default version, only with flushed cheeks and longer hair, braided and reaching her lower back. Her mercenary armor is faded and worn. It’s after the Deep Roads, so why the hell hasn’t she bought something new? Is she as frugal as my grandmother, who never did _anything_ because it cost money?

Her armor is covered in gore and blood, and I'll be damned if that isn't Anders, Isabela and Varric she has with her. Anders looks like he'd rather be digging his own grave than be in the Gallows’ courtyard. Isabela gives the lusty eye to a few Templars and an innocent wave when they scowl back, and Varric just shifts his weight from foot to foot, frowning and adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves.

Hawke sprints to Cullen's usual spot in that ridiculous girly sprint of hers, and stops dead in her tracks when Cullen is nowhere to be found.

"What the..." she mutters, frowning and looking around. "I think Cullen went rogue, guys."

"Oooh, maybe he's at the Blooming Rose. You know, _investigating_ ," Isabela offers with a smirk and a quirked eyebrow.

Damn you Cullen, I told you to leave it alone. That’s latrine duty for you, mister macaroni-hairdo.

Varric chuckles. "I think he'd sooner end up at Anders's clinic than the Blooming Rose, Rivaini."

"If he does, I'll show him the true meaning of-” Blue energy crackles around Anders. Varric stares at him with wide eyes.

“- _ouch_!"Hawke elbows him in the ribs, and the blue glow around him subsides.

"Get it together, Blondie," Varric hisses, and I roll my eyes. How did they never get caught?

"Sorry," Anders mutters, embarrassed. He looks up and his eyes fall right on me. He blanches, staggers backwards, and promptly trips over his feet in his attempt to get away. Hawke laughs, until she follows Anders's horrified look of doom. She pulls her staff off her back, falling into a battle stance.

I push myself away from the statue and hold up my hands in the universal sign of 'I'm unarmed. Please don't kill the poor unarmed citizen'.

"Be so kind to help your friend back to his feet, Master Tethras," I say, and he looks at me, one side of his lips pulled up and eyebrows raised in incredulity.

“You’re asking the _dwarf_ to haul the _human_ to his feet?” he asks, but he does so anyway. I speed-walk from the balcony down the stairs and take Cullen’s spot.

Anders looks like he wants nothing more than to rip out my - Meredith's - throat. And if said throat hadn’t been mine, I would've held her hands behind her back, cackling at her fear. Muahahaha. Sadly, I'm in Meredith's body and don't feel like dying a second gruesome death in the same day.

"I will ignore your clumsiness for the moment. Make sure it does not happen again," I go on, scowling at Anders. He gives it right back at me, his eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a sneer that'd make Barkspawn look like an Orlesian poodle.

Hawke is smart enough to intervene, side-stepping Anders and Varric and blocking my view of them. Or their view of me.

"You'll find that you're short one Templar. Sorry, not sorry. Oh, he was an abomination. Not sorry about that, either," she says, picking at her cuticles, and I nearly smile at her snarky voice. Oh, if I could steal that voice, I would. Even if it would sound ridiculous coming from Meredith.

"I see. Anything else I should know?" In my head, I'm giving her a high-five because thank you baby Jesus, she's pro-mage.

Hawke shrugs. "Nope. Oh wait, almost forgot Idunna. You might want to send someone to pick her up," she says, tapping her fingers against her staff.

"Where?"

"The Blooming Rose. She's an apostate." Another shrug.

"And?"

"Oh, so you're not going to shower me in compliments and gratitude because I faced a _maleficar_ and survived? And here I was looking forward to basking in your pride."

My eyes roll of their own accord and I bite back a chuckle. I narrow my eyes at her.

"How do I know it's not a trap? Perhaps you are a blood mage yourself."

Another half-hearted shrug and no denial at all, and Varric reaches for his crossbow. Anders tenses and holds an actual fucking fireball in the palm of his hand, and hey, I'm pretty flammable even if I'm a Templar. Coupe de ravage isn’t my look.

"I suppose you want a reward. Ten sovereigns will have to do."

She opens her mouth, and instead of a ‘thank you’, I get a:

"Just ten sovereigns? A blood mage told me to slit my own throat. My life is worth more than ten flimsy gold coins! Besides, I saved Keran from getting a demon shoved down his throat."

Varric curses.

"Ah, Hawke means the blood mage we met on the road. On the Wounded Coast. The _dead_ blood mage. You know, the one with a deadly case of the stabbies. Right, Rivaini?"

I forgot all about Isabela. She's off to the side, making eyes at a mage with shaved blond hair and stubbles. He has his back to us, but I think I recognize him… I just can’t put my finger on it. Wasn’t he the last mage to be Tranquilized? Whatever your name is, I’m terribly sorry that I got here after they performed the Rite on you. And Isabela… oh no. Bela, please don’t.

“Aren’t you a nice piece of…” Isabela says, creeping up on him from behind. He looks over his shoulder, and Isabela’s mouth snaps shut. His eyes are the most striking blue I’ve ever seen, almost like mine. (Please tell me Meredith didn't… you know, I don’t even want to finish that thought. And he’s too old, I think. Thank the Maker for small miracles.)

“Oh. That’s just sad. Never mind, forget I said anything.” She taps her fingers against her leggings. The Tranquil blinks.

“As you wish,” he says, and he continues with… whatever he’s doing. Maybe he’s meditating, contemplating on the Maker or Andraste. Or his ‘sins as a mage.’

I sigh and watch Varric sweat and Hawke yawn. Oh, goodie, I’m boring her. Maybe I can just bore my rivals to death by giving a lecture about the exciting properties of bleach. It’s worth a try.

"Er, Rivaini? A little help here?” Varric asks. Isabela shakes her head, and strides back to Hawke and company, brilliant smile back on her face.

“Stabbies, sure. Plenty.”

I wonder if Tranquil feel anything when they orgasm. Wait, do they even orgasm at all? That's physical, right?

Why am I thinking about orgasms?

"Take this and go," I tell Hawke, shoving more sovereigns into her hands. I didn't count them, might've been more than double than she asked for. Wait, she didn’t ask for a specific amount anyway. Oops. Oh well, the Chantry's loaded. No fault in spending some of that hard earned blood-money.

Speaking of blood-money, isn't Sebastian supposed to be here somewhere? No, he's at the Chantry. And Fenris is holed up in his mansion with the corpses in the hall. If Hawke ever met him at all.

"Fenris will adore me when I tell him I met you, you know," Hawke says, before leaving.

Thank you, universe. Now give me my life back.

Hawke throws a lazy handwave in my general direction, takes Anders by the arm and drags him away.

“I hope she kills Keran. The only good Templar is a dead one,” he whispers to her. Yikes. Way to make friends, Anders. Hawke drives her nails into his arm and he winces.

“My brother is a Templar, you ass,” she hisses.

“You hate Carver,” he protests.

“He’s still my…” their voices fade away. Anders stomps away at first but has to match Hawke’s pace, lest he drag _her_ off, one hand tightly gripping his staff. It's a miracle it doesn't break. It's also a miracle no Templars seem to see the damned thing. I'll have to get them all eye-exams or something. Or maybe have them checked for concussions.

Oh wait, the only place for that is Anders's clinic, and I doubt he'd appreciate every Templar in Kirkwall showing up on his doorstep. Even if it is to squint at a bunch of random letters tacked to a wall.

… Or it might just be that I told them to leave Anders alone. There’s still Hawke, though, staff sheathed through loops on her pack. Presumably a blood mage, flanked by a healer. A dangerous combination. Hm… an unstoppable combination? What would happen if every blood mage in Kirkwall teamed up with a healer? An army to overthrow every Thedosian Circle? Something to think about.

"You!" I say, making a ‘come here’ gesture to Carver. Carver forgets himself and huffs in frustration before blanching. Gah, really, why does everyone think I'll have them hanged for annoying me? Like they have a good reason for it.

Duh, of course they have a good reason for it. I shove the sack of remaining sovereigns in his hands.

"Get this to the dwarf. He'll know what to do with it. Oh, and after that, bring this Idunna they were talking about. The Blooming Rose."

He flushes and I roll my eyes.

"Don't rush on my account," I add, for good measure, and he stomps off, red to the tips of his ears.

I'm probably taking this way too quickly, but I can't stop. Aside from Elthina and the Viscount, I'm the most powerful person in Kirkwall. And Elthina is debatable, because all she does is stand on the second floor of the Chantry and look down.

Right, Chantry. Vael. Action.

I gesture for a bunch of Templars to come closer.  

"I want to snatch Sebastian Vael right out from under Elthina's nose, and here's how we will do it. Well, how _you_ lot will do it…”


	4. #FuckJustice

\-----

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 07:56 PM**

"You want me to take Templar vows," Sebastian Vael says. He leans forward, wide eyes cast upwards to me, lower teeth flashing because his mouth hangs open. I nod and shrug. What else can I do? Tell him I said ‘I want you to fake gentler rows’ and he misheard me?

"Yes." Back to one syllable words, just to be safe. Sebastian's hotness is distracting. With those sky blue eyes and thick brown locks of his, he's my type. What am I saying? Just about anything with decent looks and legs is my type.

Anything with  _ two _ legs. Chimpanzees and orangutans not included. And kangaroos? Not for me. They are nasty fuckers who’ll chomp on some leaves one minute, only to karate kick you through a window the next. No thanks. They’re welcome to stay where they are in Down Under.

"I'm an archer," he says with a raised eyebrow, giving his bow a pat. 

(That  _ voice _ . I bet Hawke makes him read recipes for chicken soup just to hear him talk.) 

His bow is a longbow, grip made from white ivory, four pieces of wood shape the curving bits, like skylark wings. My ex-boyfriend from way back would know the term for those, but to me they’re just ‘that bit that curves back, which may or may not be for aesthetic purposes.’

(Seven years, people, I haven’t had a relationship in seven years. Is that long enough to take in every stray cat in Kirkwall? On second thought, I don’t feel like having a custody war with Anders yet.

‘Yet’?)

"Not a problem," I tell him. Templar Archers exist. I never saw one smite anything, but smiting stuff with arrows would be awesome. Convenient on the battlefield. Speaking of arrows, maybe I should ask him for archery lessons.

My characters were mages or rogues until I discovered the joys of playing an archer. Stealth plus Critical Shot plus Arrow of Slaying equals easy Ogre boss fights. 

Until I discovered the joys of playing a berserker reaver with two dwarven battle axes. Silverite. Give me silverite and I'm a happy woman. I collected silverite like a hoarder collected… anything, I guess? And dragonbone. Knock on my grave with dragonbone and I’ll claw my way out of the ground like an addict being offered free black tar heroin straight from Mexico.

"Really?" he asks, tilting his head to the side. He taps his chin with a finger and purses his lips. I narrow my eyes at him, which doesn’t have the desired outcome of him backpedaling and tripping out of my office, stuttering and stammering that he’ll get right to it. Ugh. Desensitized by Grand Glaric Elthina.

"Yes, really. Ask Rutherford. I’m sure he’s willing to instruct you in the basics.”

"The Knight-Captain? Surely he must be too busy to teach me," Sebastian says spreading out his hands.

I’m going to do away with titles. Let Cullen be Cullen, damn it. Thedosians are in love with titles almost as much as Orlesians are. I'm  _ this _ far from asking people to call me Mer, goddamnit. 

"He won't be, not after tomorrow.”

Not after his latrine duty, anyway. Hehehe, that’ll teach him.

“Thrask will take most of the Captain's duties out of his hands."

\-----

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 08:00 PM**

Elsa and Niana are still gone, presumably in Anders’s clinic. Hawke dragging him off earlier today meant I didn’t get a chance to ask about them, or Keran. I don’t even know where Keran  _ is _ right now. Hopefully he’s in Anders’s clinic, sans deathroot tea to sip from, and not in The Hanged Man drinking his trauma away. I’m not against drinking when it’ll make you feel better, but expecting all your problems to magically disappear? Not gonna happen. 

Anyway, time for a visit to my favorite healer. My stomach churns, my hands become clammy. I wipe them off on the plates of my armor. Being alone means no-one can help me take it off yet, which means I’ve been lugging around extra weight for more than twelve hours. I considered taking it off myself, but mental images of being half-dressed and stuck on some back piece were too terrifying to even begin unlacing the feet parts. My feet are ready to fall off and I wouldn’t be surprised if I took off my boots with my feet in them. With a shudder at the horrifying mental image, I shake my head and lock my office this time. 

I turn around and smack into a wall of armor. Ginger hair, ginger sideburns, brown eyes and the same resting bitch face as Meredith. Casually, I start backing away from Karras. 

“My apologies,” I say, moving to the right side of the hallway to steamroll past him. 

“No problem, Knight-Commander, I should be the one to apologize,” he says, voice gruff. He keeps his hands clasped behind his back. Looks like he isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. 

“Say, about those mages that escaped…” he begins, and I dart past him. 

“Yes, yes, on it. Thank you for the reminder. Good evening, Karras,” I say over my shoulder. He stands in front of my door, arms crossed over his chest and head tilted to the side. He narrows his eyes at me and strokes one of his sideburns. 

“Of course, Knight-Commander,” he says with a hum. I throw myself around the corner in my haste to get the fuck away. Phew. 

I believe I saw a box scribbled with ‘Amell’ somewhere in the phylactery chamber. I have no idea who they belong to, because I don’t recognize any names, but an olive branch is an olive branch, right? 

\-----

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 08:30 PM**

I’m me, and me can get lost in the local supermarket if I’m not careful. I don’t have a convenient map of Kirkwall in the right upper side of my vision, so I get lost. Badly. It’s fairly easy to find stairs that go down, and Darktown is  _ down _ , but after that? 

Eventually I give up and ask the nearest beggar and buy him a loaf of bread and some cheese as thanks. I look over my shoulder before rounding the corner. He’s almost halfway through the loaf and smiling. I blink back tears. Jeesh, Kirkwall is turning me into a softie.

With trepidation driving my heart into a rapid beat, my fist hovers over the closed doors. Do I knock? Do I push open the doors and walk right in? The lanterns are lit, but...

I knock. The doors open. I have one second to take in Anders’s wide-eyed expression before he pulls me inside and slams me against the wall. Wood creaks under the onslaught. We’re nearly nose to nose and his ragged breath washes over my face, one hand clamped around my throat and squeezing hard enough to bruise,. His left arm keeps mine immobile against the wall. The tips of my boots scrape against the floor. So much for plans.

“Could you, maybe, give me, a bit more, air,” I gasp out. Anders chuckles, his little finger digging into the flesh below my collar bone while his thumb and other fingers dig into either sides of my throat. I’m no stranger to breathplay, and if he puts a little more pressure on those arteries, I’ll be out in seconds. Stars already dance across my vision, pressure makes my eyes bulge out, the rest of my body slacking a little. 

Shit, am I bad person if this makes me feel alive and excited? I didn’t get to choose my kinks or the amount of common sense Mother Nature handed out. Or my non-existent survival instinct, apparently.

“Anders?” I choke out, and he rolls his eyes, blue cracks opening on his skin and in the air around him. Of course it’s Justice. Blegh. He increases the pressure on my neck and my vision collapses on itself, bright balls of light exploding behind my eyes. My fingers tingle and go cold and curl and uncurl on their own, trying to restart the blood flow. My toes do the same. A hum fills my body. 

Damn it, I’m not dying on my first day. Or twice in one day, for that matter.

I wriggle around in his grip, not that it does me any good. My heart nearly bursts out of my chest and fills my ears, everything sounds distant and filtered. One good thing about blood chokes is that you can still breathe, the oxygen just isn’t going to your brain. And if you go lights out and the other guy lets go immediately, you’ll wake up. Maybe with one hell of a headache, but you’re not dead right away. 

Rule number: experiment with a consenting participant. Not the case here. And use a safeword and let go when it looks to be going bad. Maybe I should squeak random words and see how that works out.

“Let her go!” A streak of yellow and red cannonballs into Anders. Elsa’s voice sounds like we’re underwater. He doesn’t even acknowledge her. She pommels him on his back, face twisted into a scowl and her lips a sneer. 

Right, Justice. Slice of the Fade. Oh boy. I’m so glad I’ve been nice to her. 

Anders puts even more pressure on my neck and I gurgle and choke, slamming my heels into the wall behind me. With a loud, reverberating bang, someone else -  Niana? - brings down a  _ frying pan _ on the back of his head, and instead of me ,  Anders is the one who’s out like a light. He crashes to the floor in tangle of Tevinter feathered robes. 

My legs having the strength of overcooked noodles, I go down as well. 

“Jesus.” My voice is a squeak, before I cough my lungs out. I swear blood coats my tongue and I swallow, cringing. Niana and Elsa lean over me, wide-eyed and pale. 

“Meredith? Are you all right? Do you need a healing potion? Get her a healing potion!” Niana works herself into a tizzy, Elsa almost falls on her face in her hurry to get to the nearest crate and shuffles through it with frightening speed. I open my mouth to tell her to calm down, and burst into another coughing fit. Hunched over myself in search of relief, I watch my two Tranquil dart around. Maker’s breath. They talk through each other, yell at each other, flail around, the whole anxiety attack package. 

Fuck you, Justice. 

“Here! I found one, drink it quickly,” Elsa says, five bright red potion flasks in her arms. They tinkle against each other, one falls and shatters into pieces on the floorboards. She winces and tightens her hold on the others. Niana crouches next to Anders, dragging her hands through her hair and twisting it around her fingers. She gets up, twists around in the direction of the crate with potions, then drops into a crouch again. Worrying her bottom lip, she grabs his shoulder and shakes him, her entire body trembling, her throat bobbing and her breaths going in and out quickly. 

I crack one potion open and knock it back. Elfroot, yummy. My stomach stops trying to turn itself inside out and my throat feels less like it was scrubbed with sandpaper. I thumb open a second one and hold it out for Niana, who rolls Anders on his back, tips his head back and pours it down his throat. I crawl toward them and shove my hands underneath his shoulder and haul him up a little. I’m not going to stand by while Anders drowns in healing potions.

Niana edges away and backs herself into a corner, sliding to the floor. There’s no pause between her breaths, her chest heaving up and down. I swear I can see her ribs through her robes. Her face is red and blotchy, her eyes are puffy, tears streaming down her face. A droplet of blood stains her bottom lip. She stares at me, eyes unfocused and watery.  

“Hey, hey, you’re going to be fine,” Elsa says, dropping herself down on the floor and pulling Niana into her lap. She lays her head on Niana’s shoulder and gives a squeeze. 

“Breathe like this, all right?” Niana doesn’t even see the instructions, her chest heaving up and down and her back arching against Elsa with each rapid movement. Elsa frowns and cups her own hands over Niana’s mouth and nose. Niana struggles, shrieking and shoving at Elsa’s arms, but Elsa hangs on with her lips pressed together in determination. Her eyes are narrowed in concentration.

“Shhhh,” she whispers, pressing herself against Niana and closing her own eyes. Anders stirs in my arms and I sigh in relief, checking his pulse. A steady thrum beats against my fingers and I pry one of his eyes open. Fade blue, yikes. 

While Niana’s sobs fade away into the background, I grab a bunch of towels from the nearest table, dump them on the ground (because knowing my luck, Anders will probably projectile-vomit all over me), and give him a shake. He groans, his body moving with my administrations like a ragdoll. My eyes flit to Elsa and Niana. Niana’s breathing has slowed a bit and Elsa is rubbing her back. 

Dad used to rub my back just like that when I was little and distressed. I bite on my tongue to force back tears.

Anders groans something that sounds like ‘Slona’. Solona? God, she’s dead, too, isn’t she? As are the rest of them. Please, Aeducan, be a ghoul and not a Broodmother by now. Please. Find the Architect. I’m sorry. 

I abandon Anders to grab two potions labeled “sleep” and hand them to Elsa. Niana takes the one offered to her and gulps it down mechanically, dropping the empty flask on the floor with a clink. Elsa helps her up, still rubbing her back, and guides her to a cot in the corner of the clinic. 

One by one, she takes off Niana’s boots, whispering soothing things the entire time. Cupping her cheek, brushing hair out of her eyes, touching her arm, her hand. Whenever Niana’s attention wanders and the tears return, Elsa calls out her name in a hushed voice and waits until Niana’s eyes focus on hers, then guides her through a small breathing exercise. 

I blink back tears and look at the floor. By the time I look back up, Elsa is taking off her own boots, tucks the blankets around Niana and lays her arms around the cocoon, still whispering things under her breath. Christ, whoever made the decision to make Elsa Tranquil must’ve been blind. I hope it wasn’t Meredith. 

Blocking them out, I focus on Anders. His eyes flutter behind his eyelids and he groans, but is otherwise unresponsive. Yeah, sorry, nap time is over. 

Huffing out a breath, I stretch my hand taut and smack him on the cheek. His entire body jerks, his eyes shoot open, amber instead of glowing blue. He blinks a few times, blearily taking in me, the broken flask and healing potion pooling on the ground, and the two Tranquil huddled together in the bed. Niana’s hyperventilation attack has subsided, thank fuck… or Justice has worn off. Shit. 

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” I tell Anders while I pull him to his feet, sarcasm dripping from my voice. 

“They told me,” Anders says, with slumped shoulders. “I didn’t believe them.” 

He shakes his head and sighs, rubbing his forehead before he staggers. Woah. I grab him by the arm.

“Steady.” 

He slaps my hand away and I back off, my heart dropping and my gut churning. 

You’re welcome, by the way, for not leaving you on the floor of your clinic with a concussion. Yes, very nice of me to stay until you fully recovered and to clean up the mess my Tranquil made, thank you. Oh and #FuckJustice. 

“Well, Elsa told me,” he corrects himself, and my eyes snap back to him. “That you were different, I mean. I didn’t believe her. Maybe I should have.” 

All he gets from me is a scowl, and he sighs, shaking his head, eyes on the floor and the soaked towels. I crouch down and mop stuff up with my own towels, keeping my eyes on my hands.

“Maybe you should have. Would’ve avoided this,” I mutter more to myself than to him. Anders sighs but I don’t look up. I know what I’ll see if I do: huge, forlorn amber eyes, a pout, a wrinkled forehead. He can crawl into a ditch and die, as far as I’m concerned. 

From now on, Wynne is my new favorite healer abomination. 

“I wanted to kill them,” he blurts out, and my eyes snap up.

“What the fuck?!”

Anders cringes and holds up his hands. 

“I-I mean, when Karl… he wanted to… I thought...” His hands start trembling first, then his bottom lip, then his arms, then his shoulders. And before I know it, dumbfuck me has pulled him into a hug. Dumbfuck me is stupid, because he shoves me away hard enough that I almost trip over my own feet. I flail to regain my balance and ha, don’t fall on my ass this time. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you-” Anders begins, but I shoot forward and shove him in his chest.

“Fuck you.” I throw my hands into the air and glare at him. Shaking my head, I kick the towels. “Fuck. You.” My hands start trembling and I hide them behind my back. Anders opens and closes his mouth and clenches his fist. I shove past him. 

“Send them back to the Gallows when they wake up. Hurt them and you  _ will _ regret it for the rest of your life,” I choke out. Anders makes a futile grab for me when I pass him, and I veer out of his reach. 

“Meredith-” he says, but I slap him away again. 

“Meredith! At least let me check you for possess-” I slam the door behind me, and stomp away into the quiet street. 

There was so much that I’d wanted to tell him. Anders could’ve checked for internal damage from the kicks and cracked ribs that I’d felt before I’d died. He could’ve checked for brain damage. He could’ve healed the bruises that’ll surely stand out on my throat in a few hours. One little finger at my collar bone, the rest of his fingers around my throat, in purples and reds and yellows. 

Instead he tried to kill my Tranquil.  _ My _ Tranquil. So fuck Anders and fuck Justice, I’m done with both of them. 

Once the clinic is out of sight, I lean against a wall and catch my breath. Stars are visible through a hole in the roof, shrouded by smoke that wafts through it. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, gently prodding my throat. No pain. Of course, the healing potion. Anders is lucky I won’t have to answer any questions about bruising. He’s lucky I helped him clean up his mess. And did he answer any questions  _ I _ had? No, no he didn’t. He didn’t even let me get out one word before he slammed me against a wall and tried to squeeze the life out of me. 

I finger the four phylacteries in the pouch on my belt. I meant to give them to him, so he could pass them on to Hawke. Taking a deep breath, I fold my fingers around the vials and close my eyes, fighting to clear my mind. I focus on the low thrum just above my hearing threshold, and go from there. A weak light cleaves the darkness behind my closed eyelids, and I open my eyes. 

Whoever those Amells are, they’re not in Kirkwall. Distant relatives, maybe. Maybe even Solona. For all I know she might not have made her Harrowing, or requested to be made Tranquil. Whoever they are, I open my hand. Slowly, they roll off, tingles spreading through my fingers. One of them breaks on impact with the ground, another rolls against the wall and rocks back and forth in place. I lift my foot and and bring it down on the third before it truly hits the ground. Glass shatters with a satisfying crunch, and I grind my heel left and right for good measure. The fourth bounces once and skids to a stop against the wall.

I pick up the second vial, step back a few paces and throw it against the wall, where it explodes in a splattering of blood. Droplets catch on my eyelashes and I pinch my thumb and index finger on my lashes to rub them off. The fourth vial lays there, and maybe I should leave it and just go. But what if someone else finds it? 

I scoop it up from the ground, thumb off the cork and pour it out on the ground, dropping the empty flask. It clinks and rolls away into the shadows. 

Trembling a little, I rub my forehead and grit my teeth. Half in a daze, I manage to find my way back to the docks and gesture for a Templar on guard to ferry me across. His dark eyes are on me, but he remains silent, for which I’m grateful. I lean against the boat’s edge and listen to the oars dipping in and out of the water in a steady, soothing rhythm.

\-----

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 11:00 PM**

I’m bent over a book written in Arcanum, which lays open on my desk. The sun has long since sunk below the horizon, but thanks to the dwarven invention of glowstones, my office basks in a soft golden glow. With the book being old and faded, I hold my breath at every page I turn, half expecting it to fall apart under my touch. Sure, the Tranquil in the library assured me every book is protected by runes and sigils, but who’s to say they will keep working when a Templar touches them? Leaning my chin on my hand, I turn another page. I squint at the letters. 

Yeah, okay, I’m actually squinting at Elsa through my eyelashes. 

She and Niana slipped back in half an hour after I settled in my office, still wearing that damned armor. I asked them if they were all right, to which they replied with toneless affirmatives, and if Anders had given them any trouble, which they denied, and then asked them to help me strip out of my armor. After a quick sponge-bath, I huddled myself in the most comfortable clothes Meredith owns, a pair of beige cotton breeches and the red shirt with Chantry starbursts, and dropped myself in the chair behind my desk. 

Half an hour ago, I gave Elsa work to do and told her I was not to be interrupted. She finished fifteen minutes ago, and I’m still pretending to read a book in a foreign language and… upside down.

“Ugh,” I mutter, turning it downside up. Rightside up. You get my drift. After putting her papers in a stack on the corner of my desk, Elsa hasn’t moved a finger. She sits in her chair and does nothing. That’s not entirely true, she breathes. I wouldn’t be burning away brain cells staring at Arcanum if she was turning blue.

Maker’s breath, this might as well be Chinese, except I would’ve recognized ‘chow mein’ if it was. Just for shits and giggles, I sound out a phrase in the book and nearly jump out of my skin when runes embedded in the parchment light up.

“Fuck!” Yeah OK, no, I’m not stepping into this ‘Chosen One’ movie. No thank you. I shut the book, unbuckle my belt, and loop it around the book for good measure. Just in case.

I lay my head on my elbows and spy another glance at Elsa. My bizarre behavior has done nothing. Okay, different tactic. Slapping my desk loudly with the flat of my hand (ouch), I sit up straight.

"The royalty of Ferelden?" I fire at Elsa, jabbing a finger in her direction.

"Queen Anora Mac-Tir," she answers, without missing a beat. She doesn’t startle or shoot into a straighter posture. Damn it. I keep hoping Tranquility only suppresses feelings, and that I can bring them to the surface by… I don’t know, scaring her to death?

Never thought I’d wish to have access to  _ Scary Movie _ ever again in my life. My lips tug downward on their own accord and I shudder. Thanks Mom, for forgetting eight year old me was in the room watching a cheerleader get  _ decapitated _ .

(Sure, her severed head kept blabbering on and Hockey Mask Man dumped it into the lost-and-found objects box, but to an eight year old that isn’t funny, it’s  _ fucking terrifying _ .) 

Shoo, Hockey Mask Man. Get your ass back into the heavily guarded Alcatraz I built for you in the deepest pits of my mind. (Never mind people managed to escape from Alcatraz. Let’s not dwell on that, shall we?)

“What happened to Loghain Mac-Tir?” I ask, leaning forward.

Please be alive. Please be alive. Please be alive. I cross my fingers.

“He was conscripted,” she answers, her unblinking eyes watching me blankly. 

So… Alistair is either a Warden, or exiled.

Or dead.

“… What happened to Warden Alistair?” I’m not sure I want to know the answer and hold my breath.

Please be alive. Please be alive. Please be alive. I cross my fingers again. Not that it’ll magically resurrect him. Meh. There’s always the exiled magister Maevaris mentions in  _ Until We Sleep _ . Maybe I should find that guy anyway, just in case. Dude that can graft spirits into bodies? I don’t care if he sprinkles bleeding hearts on his breakfast cereal, that’s a valuable ally to have.

“Exiled,” Niana answers from her own desk, in front of the window. Having my back to the door would make me nervous as hell, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

Exile means he’s here. In Kirkwall. In the Hanged Man, drinking his liver into oblivion. My breathing picks up in pace, on its way to a hyperventilation session. Elsa is quietly oblivious and does nothing. I could keel over and die, and she would do nothing. What if I get a heart-attack? What if I’m choking on my food?

I think I need to have the ‘What to do when Mama is asleep, but not on the couch or in her bed, and you can’t wake her up’ talk, just in case. Shaking my head, I grab the decanter of water that’s catching light from the glowstone in its depths and pour myself a glass. My heart slows after drinking a second one, and I sigh, turning back to Elsa.

"Tell me about the Hero of Ferelden?” I ask, clutching the edge of my desk until my knuckles are white, my left foot tapping on the ground. I can't keep calling them Hoffers in my head, after all. God forbid I'll meet them one day and say: 'Ey Hoffers, how's it going?’ 

I smile. Elsa, having the emotional capacity of a pineapple, doesn’t comment on my goofy expression.

“Arlessa Mahariel. She became Warden-Commander in Amaranthine.”

So if Mahariel struck the final blow… that means…

Project Keep Loghain Alive For As Long As Possible (KLAFALAP for short) is still on. I almost slam my fist down on my desk, and clamp my jaws together to keep a victorious whoop inside.

Congratulations, Loghain. It’s a boy. And I can’t wait to meet the kid.


	5. Swoop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter I have used a few YouTube videos from Dreynschlag for the swordfighting, specifically:  
> Learn Sword Fighting 1 and  
> Learn Sword Fighting 2

\-----

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 11:38 PM**

 

Elsa helps me strip out of my armor (ridiculously easy to take off, save for the fastenings in the back) and cranks open the warm water tab. Something about dwarven runes for heating and cooling, I have no idea where the water comes from. I hope there aren’t a bunch of pseudo-slaves pumping it up from the cellars or something.

 

“Thank you, Elsa. You can leave,” I tell her, and with a nod and a slight bow, she backs out of the room. My lower belly cramps. Fuck. I can’t put this off any longer, time to face the music. Or in this case, the hideous invention most Thedosians call a latrine/pissing hole/chamberpot/whatever. I have experience with trying to pee in the wilds, or behind bushes during traffic jams on the highway on my way to Italy for a vacation.

 

Emphasis on _trying_ , because something in me just says: hell to the no, you’ll just have to squirm, hold and pray you won’t die in the back of that car until we reach an actual porcelain throne.

 

Occasional discomfort aside, the vacation had been great. Sun, sand, alcohol, and the dog in the backseat next to me. The highlight of the entire thing: the seventeen hour ride with the dog next to me, smooshed against me, or splayed out over my lap. That’s 50 kilos of dog for you. Equal in weight to yours truly. We really bonded in the back of that car, especially since everything, including my clothes and probably also my pores, ended up smelling like dog _._

 

Tilting my head to the side in my little cramped bathroom, I pace around the hole in the ground. Is there any kind of sewage underneath? I’d think not. As soon as I can, I’ll contact Orlesian builders to order one of their porcelain thrones.  How do dwarves in Orzammar do it? They must have some kind of sewage system too, unless they toss all their waste into lava pits.

 

Lava pits might not be such a bad idea. Not that I’m going to demand a re-routing of the nearest volcano. Just imagine Kirkwall’s foundation _melting_. No thanks. Good ole’ primitive sewage pipes will have to do, even if I have to camp out in the courtyard for a month while they’re dug in.

 

So I’ve done this before. It might seem silly, but instead of just squatting and tugging everything to the side, I’m wary of accidents and just strip down. Being in ‘my’ place makes it a bit less uncomfortable. Besides, I’ll be taking a bath soon, so whatever. Human excrement, while not something I’d willingly stare and sniff at for an entire day, is part of life, as much as we like to deny it. The occasional fart or burp can’t be held in for all eternity, either. Sue me, if I’m not inclined to suffer from gassy bowels.

 

Swift business done, I drop a flask of fragrant water into the hole. I think Elsa scooped it out of my bathwater, but I’m not sure. She sprinkled a calming herbal mixture from the Vinmark mountains in it, not that I paid any attention to what was in it.

 

Maybe I should pay attention to what’s going on around me.

 

Crossing my fingers that no Halla peed on the herbs.

 

With a grimace, I pick up a square stone which leans against the wall and set it on top. Nifty invention for a bunch of barbarians, if you ask me. The stone is heavy enough that it won’t get kicked off on accident, and keeps the smell from spreading. Why didn’t they slap a dwarven ice rune on this? Freezing your waste would make the stench go away, right?

 

On bare feet, I tiptoe toward the door and open it a crack. No sign of Elsa. Privacy, good. I shut the door and lean against it, focusing on the feeling of smooth wood against my bare back. Eyes closed, I take several deep breaths. As hot, fragrant steam fills the room, I slide to the ground and clutch my knees to my chest.

 

I lean my head against my knees, Meredith's long locks brushing over my naked skin. I curl my hand into a claw and let it hover above my left upper leg. Before long, my hand trembles. My teeth chatter despite the warm steam cocooning me. Closing my eyes again and biting my tongue, I press my nails into my skin and grit my teeth to stop the chattering. Red crescent moons of blood well up and I wipe them away, pulling at my hair and biting my lip.

 

Hot tears drop on my cheeks and the tiled floor, and distort everything into a blurry mess.

Deliberately hurting myself is something I haven’t done since I moved out of my parents’ home. Growing up in a home where my anger was greeted by indignant shouting or exasperated sighs, taught me to shove it deep inside myself and keep it bottled up. After a while the bottle would fill to the brim and overflow. Hurting myself by clawing shallow gauges into my skin was one way to release pressure. I didn’t do it for long, since I’d been seeing a therapist at the time, but it still feels like my default urge when I’m stressing.

 

Especially here and now, where everything is familiar and yet unknown at the same time, the urge is overwhelming. Sometimes my anger threatens to boil over. Things would break if I let it. Maybe it would’ve been better to grab all the kitchen plates and toss them against the wall in a fit of rage. Better than giving myself innumerable scars on my legs which I only noticed a few years later, when my skin tanned in the summer and the scars didn’t. Meredith’s scars are plenty and brutal, but I know what self-inflicted scars look like, and she doesn’t have any. I intend to keep it that way.

 

I allow myself one last snort of wry amusement over my pity party and haul myself to my feet, groaning when Meredith’s body protests. Somewhere in my back, a muscle twinges and flares with heat. Oh, looky, a muscle knot in the making. How delightful. I prod and massage the muscle, focusing on a steady, slow breathing pattern. With a pop, the pressure lets out and I sigh in relief. Occupied as I am, the tears dry up. I fill the sink with ice cold water and splash it on my face, wrist and the back of my neck. Fuck it. I take a deep breath and cram my head into the basin, gritting my teeth against the burning cold. My scalp _screams_ and I yank my head out of the water, droplets clinging to my eyelashes and nose.

 

A sneeze and a puddle of water later, I slowly lower myself into the porcelain bathtub and sigh. Tears fill my eyes again when I lather up my hands with soap. They spill from my eyes as I rub the mixture into my hair again and again. I’m sobbing beyond control, in big heaving breaths, by the time I’ve rinsed it out and use my fingers to comb a soft, minty oil through the wet tangles of hair.

 

By the time the water has gone cold, I’m clutching my legs to my chest, gently rocking back and forth, tears still falling down my cheeks and leaving salt on my lips and tongue. My sobs are just shuddering breaths by now. Wrecking with shivers, I croon to myself. I pommel my knees with my fists until they both ache and water sloshes over the edge of the tub in waves.

 

More than ever, I wish I could grab my cell phone and call someone. My father, my mother, even my grandmother who wasn’t really much of a talker. Even my other grandmother, who would go on and on and complain about _everything_.

 

With a sniff, I wipe underneath my nose and scrub my hands in the water. I have a one-year old sister, who I’ll never see grow up. I would give anything in the world to get my own body back. Even if it meant I would have autism and ADHD again. Sure, Meredith doesn’t have those things and I relish the silence my mind can produce without the aid of medication, but still… Did I really have to give up _everything else_ for a bit of peace and quiet in my head?

 

I lean my head against the cold surface of the tub’s rim and groan at the pounding ache behind my eyes.

 

The universe has a cruel sense of humor.

\-----

**Day 2 (16th of Drakonis) 06:30 AM**

 

My last Fade-dream was fucked-up. The Desire Demons teamed up with the Pride Demons, Rage and Hunger demons made a second squad, and Despair Demons dropped icicles on me from above. Dream-me ran all the fucking way to a grove filled with sleeping bereskärns, and I bargained my way into a truce in exchange for guarding them while they dozed off. All in all, an exhausting night, but at least I have a safe space now. Sort of.

 

Vivienne would disagree, but fuck Vivienne.

 

I'm pretty sure I didn't sleep nearly enough to face today, but I can't crawl back into bed and sleep in either. Meredith has a tight schedule and by now it has keeled over and died a dozen times. Oh well, nothing I can do about it now. I just hope there won't be a mob of angry forgotten people demanding an explanation by the end of the week. Heaven knows I'm trying to keep up with everything.

 

A quick sponge-bath and breakfast of gruel (it’s called _gruel_ for a very good reason) later, Elsa fastens my breastplate and pauldrons. I emerge from my chambers fresh-faced and with mild reluctance. Sleep, however brief it was, helped me gather my bearings. On to today. First things first: latrine duty for Cullen. Hehehe.

 

As expected, he stands in his usual spot in the courtyard. One corner of my lips pull up and I raise my eyebrows at him, hands on my hips when I stop in front of him. Cullen scratches at the back of his neck and clears his throat.

 

"Ah, Knight-Commander, what can I do for you?" He asks. Yeah right, it's not going to be that easy to distract me, Cullen-boy.

 

"Have anything to say for yourself, Cullen?" I ask. Cullen avoids my eyes by looking at the right, pressing his lips together in a tight smile, dimples appearing in his cheeks. It's an adorable guilty boyish look and yeah, maybe he doesn't deserve latrine duty. He was trying to do good, after all.

 

Cullen sighs and looks at the ground, shoulders slumping.

 

"I know, I disobeyed. But Wilmod... he turned into a Rage Demon!" he says, his eyes wide. I nod and gesture for him to go on. Cullen shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his forehead and eyes.

 

"All this time, I believed... _we_ believed... the entire _Order_ believes only mages can be possessed. Now..."

 

He puts his hands on the pommel of his sword a frown on his face, lips twisted into a grimace. Leaning forward, his voice only a whisper, he asks:

 

"What does that mean for us? For the mages? What if they're not the only danger? What if it's us? There are more non-mages in Thedas than we have mages. More than we have _Templars_. And none of us are being watched..."

 

I blink at him, because honestly, he kind of broke my brain here. One helping of unexpected questioning of motivations sprinkled with traumatizing experiences coming up.

 

"Cullen," I say softly, and he blinks at me. "If _we're_ not being watched, and we're doing fine..." I trail off. Cullen's lips part, he shakes his head.

 

"No, _no_. Things like Kinloch wouldn't happen if... if..."

 

I raise my eyebrows and stare him down.

 

"If mages were safe? Able to live outside Circles like normal people? Not pressured into a life of isolation?"

 

Why did I… Oh Jesus Christ me and my mouth.

 

He gapes at me, eyes wide. I exhale through my nose in a burst of air and click my tongue.

 

"This conversation going nowhere. Idunna and Tarhone had their hands in this. I think you're safe. As far as I'm aware, demons still need permission to possess someone."

 

Yeah, yeah, Envy possessed the Lord Seeker, so even _Seekers_ aren’t safe. I think Cullen will relocate to the bottom of the ocean if I mention that.

 

Cullen nods, his face still tight and pale, accentuating the bags under his eyes. Looks like I'm not the only one who had a bad night. Maybe we should be nightmare-buddies. Or drinking buddies. Or just buddies in general. I could use a friend. I lay my hand on his arm and sigh.

 

"I'm here for you, if you need someone to talk to, okay?" I ask him in a soft voice. He swallows, averts his eyes and nods. Sigh. He’s not going to confide in me, ever, is he? Stubborn man. I tilt my head to the side and give his arm a squeeze.

 

"You're still on latrine duty, today. Have fun scrubbing." I turn around and walk away. He groans and I laugh, flipping him off over my shoulder. A wry chuckle follows me as I take in the rising sun under my strides.

 

Annnnnd I forgot to tell him he was getting a demotion. Damn. Later. I’ll do it later, I swear.

 

I’m starting to hate armor, taking it on and off is a hassle even though it only takes ten minutes. I can even unfasten the shoulder bits on one arm if I nearly wrench the other out of its socket. Wooh, progress.

 

All in all, I’m already foolishly getting attached to Meredith’s red and yellow starburst shirt. Slipping it over my head feels like slipping on a second skin. Much more comfortable than my armor, anyway.

\-----

**Day 2 (16th of Drakonis) 08:30 AM**

 

"I'm curious as to your newfound... interest in magic, Knight-Commander," Orsino says, when he drops another stack on my desk. His tone is insistent and makes it clear he meant _obsession_ instead of _interest_ , and I look up. He leans forward, his mouth pulled into a tight line and his brows furrowed. Ugh, I’m not going to be able to kick him out, am I?

 

Quick, make something up. Distract him. Whatever.

 

"Purely academic, Orsino. And please, call me Meredith.”

 

I hold my breath when his mouth falls open and he stares at me with wide doe eyes. If I didn’t hold my breath, I would laugh my head off. Not a very nice thing to do. Instead I clear my throat, and Orsino snaps out of his stupor and shakes his head. He coughs and taps on the first book, his cheeks flushed. Aww, how cute.

 

" _The Fifth Blight_ by Brother Genitivi, _Geographical Oddities of Ferelden_ by... hm, look at that: 'Dragon Age 9:31 edition, overseen by Grey Warden Loghain Mac-Tir.'"

 

Because of course he would. Shit, now I want a signed volume. Maybe he’ll send one if I have a war table with a map of Ferelden’s Borders To Be commissioned? Bribery is good, right? Especially since getting Loghain to like you if you recruit him means shoving all your spare maps and other useless trash into his hands. Unless you save all the DLC’s for him and don’t throw your computer out the window when he loses his patience with you after two questions.

 

Or you get mods, like I did. Utility Sack 2.0. for the win.

 

Oh boy, _living_ this is going to kill me, isn’t it?

 

" _Guarding Your Mind: How to Prevent Possession_ . _The Dragons of Nevarra and how to hunt them._ Ambitious. Brother Genitivi believes each dragon has their own breeding and birthing cycle. Young dragons are apparently easier to kill if you use an iced dragonbone blade.”

 

Is that… an invitation to ask him for help? With a chuckle, he asks:

 

“You’ve never considered we might have something in common?” I just shrug helplessly. Dude, all I know about you is your interest in Necromancy, something we don’t really have in common beyond me taking dead people’s stuff. Which doesn’t count, because _everyone_ does that… right?

 

When I don’t react, Orsino averts his eyes and slides another book toward me.

 

“ _Faith, Justice, and the Spiritual Way_..."

 

He looks up at me, eyebrows raised. Hand flat on the book, he slides it towards me.

 

"I believe it would be sensible to start with this one,” he says (I agree! I wish I’d thought of books when I got here! Damn my ignorance), before he traces the title of the next book.

 

" _Koslun: Philosopher or Tyrant?_ Interesting choice." His tone is dry and I stifle a snort.

 

" _Scale and Bone: Crafting the High Dragon_. I see you are taking your new hobby seriously.”

 

I nod. “Very seriously, yes. Perhaps… care to share your knowledge with me?” I look up at him through Meredith’s blond lashes and watch as he holds his breath, his eyes darting every which way. The silence drags on until he exhales in a wistful sigh.

 

“Later, perhaps. If both our duties allow for it.”

 

I’m not sure if he realizes I’ll make sure they do. Or maybe he just feigns ignorance. Whichever it is, he taps the next book with a chuckle.

 

 _“The Elven Varterral._ Yes, I see why this would be useful. Some of these are bland, so best of luck getting through, Knight- ah, Meredith."

 

He leaves and I follow him with my eyes until the door clicks shut behind him. I sigh, rub my eyes and open the top drawer. _Tome of Technique: Use It or Lose It, Lyrium Bombs: Fact, or Fiction?_ and _The Holy Office of the Seekers_ lay inside, neatly stacked on top of each other.

The last one has a spelled lock (who _locks_ their books?) and won't open.

 

I tried to pry open the lock with a dagger, and the damn blade just bent. I filched a book on lockpicking from the library and read it, and my shiny new lockpicks also bent. Joy. Bashing the Seeker book with the book on lockpicking achieved nothing. I’m of half a mind to give it to Elsa and Niana and tell them to play tug-o’-war and see if they can tear it in half.

 

The first tome gave me information about Templars, so at least now I know the basics of cleansing and smiting. So, the convoluted version is: it’s not all blinding yourself by staring at a candle in the dark, or all about holy smites and cleansing areas. As far as I can tell, there’s a wealth of techniques no-one ever uses, or maybe they’ve decided it’s useless anyway and just skip them.

 

The amount of ‘spells’ and uses for Templar energy is a little scary. The basics remind me of Vipassana meditation. For the blissfully ignorant: you sit still for way too many hours on end while you wait for your upper lip to start itching and focus on that itch. (Victory!) You’re not supposed to scratch, it’s supposed to fade on its own.

 

The Templar version of this would be pulling a glove of… holy smiteness on your hand by focusing on your hand. Holy smiteness? Templar energy? Holiness?

 

(Reminds me of Oren’s sword of truthi- Oh God, Elissa Cousland is _dead._ Duncan went to the _Dalish_. Poor Fergus. A letter. I’ll send him a letter. And maybe… coin. No, no coin. He’ll think I want something from him. A sword? Jesus Christ you stupid girl, way to kick a man while he’s down. Okay, um… I’m sure there are Chantry records about his family in Denerim. Yes, a tapestry with the Cousland family tree, from way back. Excellent idea. And Ferelden has a weaver’s guild. See? I’m getting the hang of this diplomatic snoozefest. I’ll learn.)

 

I’ve meditated for five minutes after reading the book, centering my focus on a non-existing band around my ring finger, on my right hand. My mother’s wedding ring used to rest there, but I’ll probably never see it again. Gold with an inlaid triangle of silver around a small diamond. It was my most valued possession, to be honest. Even if I lost everything from the roof over my head to the clothes on my back, I’d still have that ring around my finger.

 

(Until I pawned it for lunch money, because my life is even more valuable.)

 

I never expected to lose my entire _body_ , jewelry included.  

 

Anyway, I look down at my ring finger and squint, biting my tongue in concentration. Yes, there it is! Fuck, my mental cheer made me lose concentration. Ugh. For a few seconds, translucent wisps were about to melt together into an ethereal ring. By this rate, I’ll be able to wear this ‘ring’ for an hour… on my deathbed when I’m old, gray and drooling on myself. Yay.

 

Oh, yeah, I shouldn’t forget my lyrium fix either. The joys of addiction. Thanks, Meredith. Early onset dementia is just what I needed in my life. I tip the flask and slowly pour out a little on a silver teaspoon. Er, now what do I do with it?

 

Meredith isn’t a flower or plant woman, but she does have one plant, an abominable dark green dusty monstrosity with spines. I think it’s a cactus of some sort. Yeah, I don’t know where she got it from, but whatever.

 

(Maybe it was a gift from business relation, meant to convey a subtle ‘Stay the fuck away, bitch please?’)

 

With a shrug, I dump the teaspoon of lyrium on the soil. You’re supposed to give plants a little Pokon, every now and then. He’ll be fine.

 

 _Ask Varric about acquiring more raw or unrefined Lyrium_ I scribble in my notepad. Not red Lyrium, I'm not insane. Speaking of red Lyrium, how on earth hasn't the sword given me Blight disease yet?

\-----

**Day 2 (16th of Drakonis) 10:00 AM**

 

Casual clothes go off and armor goes on again, and I clank my way to the courtyard to find Thrask.

 

“I would like to see for myself how you train the novices,” I tell him, shielding my eyes from the rising sun. Thrask frowns at me, his mustache and goatee wiggling with the movement. I bite on my tongue to keep from smiling.

 

“They’re all running errands or doing chores now, Knight-Commander,” he says, flexing his fingers in some kind of dexterity exercise. For that matter, he’s doing faux swings without a sword and something that looks suspiciously like lunges. Lunges, in full heavy armor complete with the spiky bits on his shoulders. How he’s able to move at all is a mystery. Badass.

 

“I could gather them up and have an extra training session now, but it’d be best to wait until tomorrow.”

 

I laugh and shake my head, checking if my hair is secure in its braid.

 

“I didn’t mean watching the novices, I meant going through the exercises myself, as if I were a novice.” I explain, my eyes on a wooden training rack against the wall. It has everything from wooden swords to shields and I’m pretty sure there’s even a rusty hallbard (which I only know as the much more elegant German hellebarde) in the very back. Who the fuck do they train in here? Qunari? I mean, no-one could lift that thing without giving themselves carpal tunnel syndrome.

 

I miss computers. And my phone. But it’s amazing how quickly I’m physically getting used to having neither at my disposal. I haven’t made one futile grab for my phone yet.

 

My hands itch to pick up the hellebarde and give it go, because badass giant axe is badass, but I’ll stick to swords for now. I mean, I’ll stick ‘em with the pointy end for now.

 

“Oh,” Thrask says, blinking in surprise. He hums and rubs his beard. He holds up a hand, and searches through the weapon rack. He tosses me an iron sword and I barely manage to catch it. By the blade. The thick, dulled edge is the only reason why I’m still in possession of all my fingers.

 

“Ah, I guess I just lost five fingers?” I ask with a grimace.  Thrask snorts.

 

“Be glad those are dulled practice swords. And you don’t have to pretend to be a novice,” he says with a chuckle.

 

“Duly noted,” I say with dry sarcasm, holding out my blade. By the hilt this time. And so it begins.

 

And ends within two seconds, when Thrask shakes his head and walks over to me to adjust my grip and posture. Damn it.

 

“Blade up, and hold your sword at shoulder level. Right hand goes under the guard and wrap your left hand around the pommel. Put your left foot forward,” he says.

 

“What if the person is left-handed?” I ask him, looking over my shoulder. The blade blocks part of my view of him, but at least I don’t accidently slice off my own head.

 

He shrugs. “Then it’s the other way around, at first. But all novices learn to wield a sword the other way, too, in case their dominant hand is injured.”

 

Sensible enough. And probably difficult as hell.

 

“All right, now make sure you’re facing your opponent,” Thrask says. He chuckles. “That would be me, but I’m going to guide you through the movements as I would a novice, so forget about the opponent for a minute.”

 

“Right,” I mutter, facing forward as instructed.

 

“Now bring your blade forward in a defensive stance, to deflect any opening blows from your opponent.”

 

My opponent being a cold breeze, there’s more than enough time to stumble around and adjust.

 

“Step forward and move a little to the right at the same time…”

 

“So I’m out of the line of attack?” I ask, mentally crossing my fingers I’m not fucking up. Thrask smiles and nods.

 

“Exactly. Hm, if I wouldn’t know any better I’d think you’ve never held a blade before in your life.” He laughs.

 

Uh-hu. I drop my sword, wincing when it clangs to the ground.

 

“Oops,” I mutter, blinking and smiling innocently up at him. Thrask lets out an amused chuckle and bends down to pick up my sword. I shove him in the backside with my foot. With an _oof_ , he falls to the ground. I snort while he scrambles to his feet, angry frown on his face.

 

Innocently, I ask: “Lesson two: never let your guard down?”

 

He puts his hands on his hips and huffs. “Never shove someone who’s picking up a sword.”

 

Oh. Yes that was… a dumb thing to do, wasn’t it? My heart sinks. What the hell was I thinking?

 

\-----

**Day 2 (16th of Drakonis) 11:00 AM**

 

“You’re not using your shield,” he says, and I curse and glance at the heavy thing strapped to my right arm. It’s standard Templar issue, with the Sword of Mercy, the upper edges taper into a point level with my head, the lower edges into a point halfway down my thigh

 

“Right, sorry.” I tap it with my sword. Maybe that’ll help me remember I have the damn thing. A few seconds later, Thrask’s sword bounces off the edge of my shield when he makes a move that would’ve otherwise chopped off my toes. I like my toes, all ten of them, thank you very much. He nods and circles me. I circle with him, my muscles a little warmer and smoother.

 

He holds his sword in his right hand, shield strapped to his left arm. It’s over the left side of his body, leaving space for feet to step to the right. Holding a sword in my right hand felt alien, so I mirrored him.

 

He steps forward and I step into the narrowing space between us, going for his feet in a downward arc. The blow glances off his steel boots. Cold metal touches my neck and I freeze. Shit.

 

“And you’re dead, novice,” Thrask says, amused. I roll my eyes and bite back a curse, rolling backwards when he lifts his sword off my neck. Once I’m halfway into the roll, the shield’s weight shifts my momentum and I almost end up rolling all the way into the wall. Thrask laughs and gives me time to scurry back on my feet. Which takes a few tries because I keep falling over.

 

“Most novices can’t even lift their shields, but I’ll ignore that one,” he says. I chuckle and breathe in and out slowly. Sweat pours off my forehead into my eyebrows. I wipe at my face with my grieved hand, taking care to keep the sharp bits out of my face. Don’t want to skewer my own eyes. That’d be a lousy end.

 

“Wait, talk me through the basics of Templar abilities and let me toss out a smite first.” I lean on my sword, which is unsteady on the courtyards cobblestones, and wobbly around a bit before steadying myself. Thrask frowns.

 

“It’s not like you can forget how to smite and re-learn,” he says doubtfully, and I laugh and shake stray hair out of my eyes.

 

“I can try,” I say with a shrug. Oh just STFU and tell me already.

 

“All right,” he says, placing the tip of his sword on the ground in front of him. With creaking leather, he folds his hands around the pommel.

 

“Hold on to your sword like this, close your eyes, and clear your mind.”

 

He drones on and on, about various pieces of the Chant I can use as a focus. Certain finger movements change the focus and direction of the smite, the swiftness, it’s strength. Closed finger positions make it more of a gentle nudge, a warning. Clawed hands and strained muscles make it into an attack. Hands locked in a triangle spears the energy, making it fly like an arrow. Least effective is pouring it into a ball in your hand and throwing it, because the smite will move slow as fuck or get carried off on the breeze. WTF?

 

‘An apostate went for a stroll and got hit by a stray Holy Smite, and you’ll never guess what happened next.’

 

No wonder they don’t use those focus exercises I’ve been doing. They’re pretty much useless.

 

And then there are the various ways to sense spirits, wisps and wraiths. And demons. With enough concentration, focus and teeth grinding, they flicker in and out of existence in my sight. Huh. If I squint hard enough and hold my breath, a green blurry mist seeps into the world for a second or two. Damn it, I wish I could ask him what the fuck that’s about. The thin Veil, probably. But for all I know, Meredith spends several hours meditating on the Veil in hopes to fix it, and asking about it will make him suspicious.

 

“Let’s start from the beginning,” I tell Thrask, trying to make a badass twisting move with my blade and dropping it in the process. Yikes. With a sigh, I bend forward and pick up a set of leather gloves to put on. This is going to take a loooong time, isn’t it?

 

We go through a few cooldown exercises before Thrask takes his leave to spend time… elsewhere. I didn’t think to ask, actually.

 

I toss off my greaves and rub warmth back into my bare fingers. Squinting again, I concentrate on the wisps. They flood back into existence. Jellyfish-esque wisps, in vibrant translucent lyrium blues, ruby reds, shimmering pinks and rift greens float and bob in a non-existent wind.  With held breath, I reach out my hand and touch one of them with my fingertips. The white pulsating orb squeezes together and propels itself away, my eyes following it. My finger tingles and for a second it’s like my fingernail is going to jump off.

 

“Er, sorry,” I mutter. A red one drifts by, looking like a walnut with an elongated end. Its mass is shaped out of little hills topped with neon red zipper teeth. It floats more than it propels itself, though I think the zipper teeth have something to do with its speed.  Rift green flares through them, from end to end like an electric current. It stills in front of my face, ‘teeth’ facing me. They move from left to right in little waves.

 

“ _Kgggg,_ ” the floating red jellyfish walnut says, ripples going through its shuddering mass. Somehow.

 

Wah?

 

I reach out like I’d reach out to a tarantula, in slow jerky movements. My neighbor had… er, has tarantula. Tarantuli? Tarantulea? Whatever, he had multiple hand-sized hairy spiders.

 

When he’d convinced me to pet the hellspawn, I’d reached out. As if pulled on a string, a bunch of hairy legs had risen in the air in a ‘thefuck do you think you’re doing, missy’ move. Obviously, the neighbor kept telling me it was fine, so I ran my finger up and down one of the legs and then retreated to the other end of the effing room. Don’t get me wrong, I love big spiders. As long as they aren’t shipping container sized. Like Thedosian spiders. And as long as they don’t look like they’re going to bite me.

 

I do the same with this weird floating thing, which my brain perceives as ‘not dangerous’ even though it looks like a living prop from the set of _Alien vs. Predator_.

 

Dear diary, today I learned my reptile brain lacks self-preservation.

 

The teeth feel solid and warm to the touch. For that matter, it doesn’t feel like jelly pudding at all, more like… firm gel? Which I guess is a form of jelly. Ng. Nevermind what it is, more important: the teeth light up when I touch them, absorbing the neon light from the rest of its body. Seriously, it’s like a little whirlpool of color flowing into one spot just beneath the surface.

 

“ _Krrrrr,_ ” it says.

 

And grows two bulbous eyes on antennas.

 

And wings.

 

And legs.

 

And teeth _._

 

The extremities sort of fold out of its body. The mouth is no more than a gaping slit of darkness with terrifying glowing shards for teeth. The wings are thrice its size and made out of multiple jagged shards, like broken glass, angled in every direction. They glow in pulses, the glow extending inside its… back? Ouch? The legs are… I can’t imagine being able to perch on anything with uneven legs looking like they broke in multiple places and healed wrong. The entire shape, and the wispy sparkles on its back though...

 

“You’re a moth,” I say dumbly.

 

“ _Kr_ ,” it says, flapping its ‘wings’ as it floats in place. So whatever the fuck it was before was it’s larval form or something. A-okay. My eyes fall on its belly, where a green pulsating shard fades in and out of existence.

 

....

 

What’s the safest place to hide something incredible powerful where no demon will find it?

 

Inside a harmless looking red blob no-one gives a second thought. Every Circle mage has been taught everything in the Fade is nefarious and should not be interacted with. No Templar would ever touch it, not even with a ten foot pole. I blink and look around.

 

Holy fuck.

 

I’m in the Fade.

 

I don’t mean the ‘moth’ shocked me into a coma or anything, I mean I’m _in the Fade_ . Physically. Only I didn’t step through a rift, the world didn’t jar, I didn’t feel _anything_.

 

I’m in the Fade, and in front of me floats the fucking Orb of Destruction. I hold out my hand, palm facing upward, and the moth perches, a little wobbly, on my hand. And folds its wings on its back and starts rubbing its two front legs together and over its eyes and head like a common housefly.

 

‘Er, say hello to Solas for me?’

 

‘ _Kr,_ ’ the moth says, just before it flaps its wings and soares away,  just before the Fade falls away around me to make place for reality.

 

Reality. Templar powers reinforce reality. Reality for that larval thing is that it was, in essence, destined to grow into a moth?

 

What _is_ reality? Isn’t reality ultimately the way things were _before_ the Veil came into existence? If so, why don’t Templar powers work backwards? Or are they working backwards now?  

 

… Please, universe, tell me I didn’t break my Templar powers.

 

Ugh, my head.

 

I scrutinize my hands, turning them over and wiggling and curling and stretching my fingers. No marks, no anchors, no flowing lights, no wisps, nothing. Not even a tingle or an itch. For that matter, I’m pretty sure I was just the idiot in the wrong place and the wrong time, not some harbinger of doom. I hope. Fingers crossed.

 

Eh… at least the Orb can defend itself now?

 

Maybe I’ll get lucky and it’ll maul Solas.

  


\-----

**Day 2 (16th of Drakonis) 03:00 PM**

 

The Hanged Man is packed. Varric sits at a table in the corner, spreading his wild tales about how Hawke single-handedly killed a dragon. There hasn’t been a whisper about dragons on the Wounded Coast, so I guess it's a dragon made from baked air. Mental note: send someone to keep an eye on the mines, just in case. I doubt Hawke feels responsible for anyone but Hawke, judging by how she brought Anders into Templar Central.

 

And even if she did, those miners would end up dead, anyway. Bioware's blatant disregard for the innocent lives of hard working men is unsettling. We get it, Bioware, only heroes get to live and us piss poor peasants get to rot in our untimely shallow graves. ~~The Antivan Crows~~ Bioware’s developers send their regards. Ha-ha-di-ha.

 

I ignore Varric and his audience for the moment, eyeing none other than Alistair Theirin. Damn, he looks miserable. His table (shoved into a dark, quiet corner) is littered with empty cups. One of them is on its side, dripping ale on the floor. Narrowing my eyes, I take him in. He's wearing a stained, faded red tunic and beige pants, his cheeks a bit more filled out than I expected.

 

In Inquisition as king, he looked regal, even more so if he'd been hardened. As Warden, he just looked cynical and sad. But Drunkistair? He's the worst.

 

Alistair stares into his mug of ale with puffed up, droopy eyes. God, what do I say to a man who has lost everything?

 

“There was a templar in here yesterday. Says Meredith's been spending more and more time alone in her office. And if you walk by, it sounds like she's talking to herself. Strange, huh?” Corff the barkeeper says, not looking up as he cleans a glass with a stained cloth. I can’t help but smirk.

 

“I’m pretty sure I’m bouncing ideas off my assistants, not the walls, thank you very much,” I reply dryly.

 

He does a double-take and bites back a yelp when he sees me, nearly making me burst into laughter.

 

“Knight-Commander! Uh… ale? On the house, of course,” Corff squeaks in a high-pitched voice that’s barely audible over the din, and he nearly trips over himself to give me his best ale after I nod.

 

He slams a flagon of ale on the counter and I pull back my hand when the ale sloshes over the rim.

 

"See that man?" I ask, giving a wave to Alistair's corner. Corff furrows his brows.

 

"Who, Ser Swoop?" he asks, rubbing his chin. I bite on my tongue. Yeah, that guy. I take in Corff’s blonde hair, his square jaw, his green-blue eyes. Please tell me Maric hasn’t been to Kirkwall. I shove the thought away and nod.

 

"Yes, him. I want him off alcohol as soon as possible. Zilch. Understood?" I slide a few sovereigns his way.

 

Leaning on his elbow, he hums and rubs a coin in between his fingers, looking up at me with expectant eyes. Ugh, fine. Five more silvers magically make their way from my pouch to his counter. With a brilliant smile, he nods.

 

"Right on it, Knight-Commander," he says loudly. The Hanged Man falls silent.

 

I dare to look over my shoulder. Joy. Everyone stares at me. A muscular beast of a fellow is frozen halfway to bringing his mug to his mouth, pale foam dripping into his grizzled beard. He grunts, scratches his sunken cheek and turns his gray eyes on me and lifts his flagon in a salute. With a snort, I return the gesture and shake my head. Nope, I’m not here to get picked up by some drunk guy, sorry. Drunk Guy shrugs and chugs his ale.

 

Varric looks like he stopped mid-sentence and mid-gesture (it looks like some epic killing blow to me, but for all I know he might be illustrating how to chop carrots), Isabela glares at me from her place at the bar, as do other people. Well, it's not like I tried to disguise myself, anyway.

 

Let’s try The Hanged Man’s legendary ale. I take a small sip and almost spit it back out. If Corff and just about everyone else hadn’t been watching me expectantly, I might have. Swallowing takes effort, but it goes down eventually, leaving the taste and smell of ~~decaying corps~~ e rotting potatoes on my tongue and in my nose. (Believe me, rotten potatoes smell worse than decaying rats. Thanks, mittens, I really appreciate having a dead rat shoved in my face in the morning.)

 

I slide the ale towards Isabela, because I'm an idiot who thought sitting in front of a thirsty drunk with my own cup of diluted Darkspawn piss was a good idea, and push myself away from the bar.

 

"Go away," Alistair drawls when I drop myself into the chair across from him. Crossing my legs and arms, I lean back and shamelessly drink everything in (excuse the pun). This is just sad.

 

I chuckle and manage a smile, keeping my eyes on his. I'm glad Meredith doesn't blush. Oh God help me, how do I act if _Zevran_ shows up in Kirkwall? I don't think I'll survive that encounter. I could just stay out of it, of course... but it’s _Zev_. I'm going to be there if I can. Let's just hope he has a thing with Mahariel.

 

"See, I'm quite comfortable here. Even with everyone staring at me."

 

I give the entire tavern a _GLARE_ and everyone turns around, back to their own business. For the next second.

 

"And here's the thing, Alistair." His brown eyes widen a little, and then he sags, mumbling incoherent things to himself.

  


"I know what happened and the Hero of Ferelden was a fool to let it happen like that. She should've chosen a different path." Namely, blatantly telling you no-one cared about you and marrying you off to Anora against your will, but let's not mention that.

 

"Thing is, there's a Grey Warden in the city. He has a clinic in Darktown, and he could use some help."

 

Varric abandons all pretense of being in conversation and doesn't even try to hide his  eavesdropping, while Alistair glares at me.

 

"I want nothing to do with the Grey Wardens, not while Loghain is alive."

 

Sigh.

 

"This particular Grey Warden deserted."

 

Alistair leans his head on his hand and blinks blearily at me.

 

“After she let Amaranthine burn, you mean?” Shaking his head, he takes a swig of ale. I press my nails into the palm of my hand to keep myself from snatching it out of his hands and whacking it on his head. I don’t have to ask who ‘she’ is.

 

"You could exchange blightmare stories," I suggest innocently, only realizing my slip when he chokes and sputters ale all over my face. Ew. Thank God for handkerchiefs.  

 

"How-" he starts, and then he just groans and thumps his head against the table, crossing his hands over the back of his head. I stuff my be-aled handkerchief back into my pocket and lean back.

 

"I don't want to know. Shut up. Go away," he says, muffled through the table.

 

"Think about it. Join the City Guard, if you don’t want to help Anders. Or join the Templars. We're hiring and you have plenty of experience with demons." My cheery tone fails to excite him.  Alistair grunts and looks at me with one bleary eye.

 

"The one Circle I’ve been to was overrun with demons, so no thank you. Besides, I’d rather not have to stand guard at Harrowings. Or Rites." He shudders.

 

"No Harrowings, no Rites. Just... be a symbol of trust to the mages. I'm weeding out the angry, spiteful Templars and I'll have to bring in more sympathetic ones. You don't even have to take Lyrium if you don't want to."

 

And please don't, because then I'll be stuck with two recovering addicts. You’ll probably bitch and moan about it more than Cullen will.

 

Alistair groans and doesn’t answer. I stare at my fingers for a few seconds, before glancing at the rest of the tavern patrons through my eyelashes. I shuffle in my seat, cross and uncross my legs, cross my ankles, shake out my fingers. Alistair doesn’t react to my discreet cough, nor when I clear my throat. As inconspicuous as possible, I lean forward and tilt my ear toward his head. Soft snores greet me. At least he’s still breathing.

 

"Has the audacity to fall asleep on me,” I mutter, shaking my head.

 

"Mind if I use this in my book?" Varric asks, and I almost jump out of my skin because I hadn't noticed him sneaking up on me. He scratches the back of his neck and angles his head.

"Sorry. Thought you'd be all on guard, you know. Anyway, this-" he gestures at sleeping Alistair with his quill.

 

"-is perfect material. The exiled prince of Ferelden, either drinking his life away or picking himself up to help other people." He spreads his hands in the air to illustrate his fantastical story.

 

I shrug to let him know of my assent, and he grins. It’s gone a second later, replaced by worry lines on his forehead.

 

"Did you mean it?" he asks.

 

I stare at him. Did I mean what? Did I say something stupid? Sometimes I have the emotional capacity of a five-year old.

 

"What are you referring to?"

 

"Weeding out the bad Templars,” he says, scratching his cheek.

 

"Absolutely, Master Tethras. And let your friend know he can sleep safely at night. I told my men he's doing more good than bad. Oh, speaking of your friend’s good work..."

 

Varric can keep his title, it’s classy. More coins are dredged out of my money pouch, and I slide them over the table. Coppers, silvers, sovereigns.

 

"Consider this his first payment. Charity is admirable, but he must be starving, Grey Warden appetite and everything.”

 

Varric wordlessly looks at the coins, his eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline. I smile.

 

"Change is coming to the world, Master Tethras. I'm just here to give change a shove in the backside and tell it to hurry the fuck up."

 

I’m pretty sure his eyebrows would fly out of orbit if they hadn’t been attached to his face. I lay my hands flat on the table, spreading my fingers and gripping it a little for support.

 

"Let's just say that... I'm not who I used to be. At all. I hope you'll believe me one day."

 

\-----

**Day 2 (16th of Drakonis) 03:42 PM**

 

With mortification, I stare at the letter I wrote to Mother Dorothea and let my head fall on my desk. The fuck did I write. I’m so dead. Thank God it’ll take Leliana at least two weeks to get here. Unless she hires someone in Kirkwall to slit my throat while I’m asleep. And that’s only if the letter finds its way to Mother Dorothea right away. How will I know if it has? God, I’ll never sleep again. With a groan, I shred the letter into little pieces and drop them in the hearthfire for good measure. Please, Maker, make sure a whale accidently gets a mouthful of letter-carrying raven.

 

\-----

**Day 2 (16th of Drakonis) 04:20 PM**

 

"Knight-Commander," Fenris's voice is hoarse and soft, and I swallow a fangirl squeal (Fenris! In my office! Swoon) and look up from my books and scrolls. My eyes are drawn to his tattoos, which glow and hum softly. My fingers itch to touch. Would they feel rough against my fingers? Would they taste like lyrium if I swept my tongue over them? Are elven ears as sensitive as everyone seems to think they are? What would it feel like to drag a nail over one of them in a long, lazy-

 

Fuck, Grethilda, stop being such a pervert. I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a second. 1. 2. 3. OK, I’m good.

 

I don't think I can talk without sounding like an over enthusiastic idiot, so I give Fenris a respectful nod and beckon him in. He closes the door behind him and removes an extra sheath from his back with precise movements, making sure he touches it as little as possible.

 

"Your... sword," he says, his shoulders slouched as if he'd rather be swallowed up by the ground. White hair falls in front of his eyes and he pushes it away, sharp greaves coming dangerously close to his yellow-green eyes, making me cringe inside.

 

What possessed Hawke to send _Fenris_ to return my _LYRIUM_ sword?

 

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience. I thought Hawke would send Sandal. Had I known she would send you, I would have sent Carver myself. Put- You can put it on the desk, please."

 

For God's sake, don't command the ex- _slave_ , you dumbfuck.   

 

A scowl is the only answer and I sigh, rolling up a scroll and pushing books out of the way to make room. He slaps the sheath on the desk and his tattoos flare up. They _sing_ when they do that. Shit, I'm gaping at him.

 

"Thank you, Fenris. I hope five sovereigns is to your satisfaction, given the nature of the delivery. Consider it compensation for the inconvenience. And if you ever need help with anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I'm sure Thrask or Cullen would be more than happy to flail around Darktown and _accidently_ cleave a slaver or two in half."

 

His lips tug upwards and he nods, fingers drumming on his leggings.

 

"Perhaps I will. And yes, five sovereigns is more than sufficient. You have my thanks. Good day, Knight-Commander."

 

“Meredith. My name is Meredith. Or 'Move!' if I'm in the way."

 

The sound he makes might have been a laugh, and he nods again.

 

“Good day, Meredith,” he says. One corner of his mouth quirks up.

 

Gah. That voice makes my toes curl. I let out a dramatic sigh when his footfalls fade away into the corridor’s bustle. When I’m sure he’s gone, I pull the sword out of its sheath. _Zzzzinngggg_. That hasn’t changed. Probably looking like an idiot, I lay the sword out on my desk and lean over it, with my ear above the glowing red surface.

 

_re… awa… see… wai…_

 

Much, much better. Thank you, Sandal. I’ll make sure to send some cookies your way.


	6. Blood

\-----

 **Day 3 (17th of Drakonis) 10:20 AM** ****

Thrask steps forward and swings his blade in a downward arc, which I counter by bringing my sword down. Twisting my right hand, my blade shifts with the movement, facing Thrask’s throat. I throw my full weight behind a thrust, and the blade screeches against his neck-guard.

 

“Well done, _novice_ ,” he says with a chuckle.

 

The heavy emphasis he puts on the word is definitely my imagination.

 

Definitely.

 

Back in a defensive stance, I roll my shoulders and adjust my grip, while Thrask stretches his fingers, his heavy armor clanging with every movement.

 

“Now I’ll show you what most beginners do to counter it,” he says, coming at me with a downward swing. Our blades clang together, he twists his right hand and pushes forward in a slow, precise move. I jerk my arm upward until Thrask’s blade hits the crossguard. Huzzah, I’m safe.

 

Well… My upper body, neck and head might be safe, but everything else is unguarded. I have to bite on my tongue to keep a surprised “Huh” from slipping out, because Meredith Stannard would be able to dream this kind of thing.

 

Wait a minute… If _I’m_ undefended… then so is he…

 

With a smirk, I raise my right leg, kick against his groin with my foot. He huffs and staggers backward, and I bring my blade down on his helmet. Wooh I’m badass.

 

“A _real_ novice would stand there and not know what to do with himself,” Thrask says, after we’ve both withdrawn. Phew. Shrugging, I pull off my helmet and shake out my hair.

 

“Good thing I’m a woman then. We’re resourceful.”

 

Thrask throws his head back and laughs. “I suppose. Let’s try again.”

 

“Hold on, give me a minute to think.” I hold out my hand. Nodding, Thrask tosses me a water flask. I repeat the hand-twisting move from before, after drinking. Can I counter his thrust if I twist my hand further and push his blade to the left? I’d have to lean to the right with my body a bit so my head doesn’t get skewered, but it might work if I’m quick enough. Plus, we’re wearing armor.

 

Just to be on the safe side, I drop my visor. I have absolutely no idea what the style of the visor is called, but I’ll just call it “fly-eyes” because it has a lot of little holes instead of being a slit.

 

Red wings made from jagged shards, gleaming glowing teeth, a shard flashing and pulsating with green. Goddamnit, I don’t want to think about the Orb-Lord of the Moths. Last night I meditated until I nodded off and jerked awake from ‘free falls’, stubbornly keeping at it until my surroundings fell away and the Fade swirled around me. I stayed in control for one second, twitched my pinkie finger and was swept out of my body by some unseen force to watch myself from above.

 

I’ve actually dreamt like that since forever.

 

I have had exactly _one_ pseudo lucid dream in my life, the first time I forgot to take my prescription Melatonin. I’d known what lucid dreams were, even tried to trigger them in my spiritual wicca phase when I was thirteen, but gradually my faith in the spiritual faded until I considered myself an agnostic atheist. The lucid dream happened when I was… twenty-two, a few days before my sister was born and, if my memory serves right, the last time I slept at my Dad’s house before just visiting whenever.

 

Newborn babies tend to wreck sleep and I'll never call myself a skeptic again in my life.

 

Anyway, I did not see the red moth last night (I don’t even want to know if Solas got my ‘hello’), instead popping into existence in the middle of a pile of bereskärns. If I’d had control over my mouth, I would’ve asked _them_ , but I doubt Sloth demons do anything beyond laze around. They don’t need food or water, so why get up and do stuff if you can just snooze away the rest of your immortal(?) life?

 

I’ve heard too much sleep is just as a bad as sleep deprivation.

 

Maybe that’s why the Evanuris went cray-cray.

 

The fly-eyes make it hard to see stuff and tint everything gray. I’ll just have to rely on our established routine and cross my fingers he won’t deviate now.

 

Our blades meet, I throw my upper body out to the right whilst twisting my right hand to the left and push. I stumble, my sword catches on Thrask’s crossguard and jerks. White-hot pain flashes through my thumb when my momentum versus the unyielding blade forces it to move in a way it shouldn’t. Impact slaps the blade out of my hand, I flail to regain my balance.

 

“Fuck!” My right side burns like hellfire, I hunch over to make the pain go away, the movement shifts my balance and my legs shoot out from under me. My armor jars, my elbows jar, my shoulders jar, my knees jar, and everything hurts like a bitch. Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to catch myself with my elbows, since the armor would kind of keep me safe. But it was an instinctive move, just like when I was biking on a roundabout and a car hit me.

 

This hurts more, which is ridiculous. (Yeah okay, the car was pulling up, not going full speed. But still, a moving vehicle hit me from the side. Ironically, the lady was watching the car in the other lane instead of me. Because it was slowing down. Because the man behind the wheel saw me and the lady and thought: ‘This is going to end badly.’ I salute thee, concerned citizen.)

 

Instead of getting up, I roll on my back and pull my helmet off. Sucking in fresh air, I watch the gray-white sky and darker clouds drift by.

 

“Didn’t work as well as I thought it would,” I gasp out eventually, before taking off my gloves and brushing sweat off my face. My hands are red and clammy themselves, so it doesn’t help much. Thrask holds out a hand and pulls me up, and I’m wiggling my fingers, bending my arms and knees and rotating my wrists and shoulders before he has opened his mouth. All fine, if a bit bruised. But no matter how careful I am, if I touch my side or twist my upper body, something hurts.

 

“Ah, fuck fuck fuck.” I hunch over when I prod it with my fingers, and cough when my chest constrics. Fuck. I stretch and breathe through the pain, through the constriction, and it settles after a few seconds. I don’t know what it’s called, but I’m no stranger to the sensation of lungs ‘imploding.’ It hurts like a bitch, but a good stretch and steady breathing usually gets rid of it within a few seconds. Not this time.

 

“I think I cracked a rib or something,” I mutter to Thrask.

 

“Let me see.” He unfastens my pauldrons and breastplate and sets them on the ground, heedless of order. Pulling up the doublet makes me wince, but I breathe through it.

 

It doesn’t hurt, nothing hurts, everything is fine, I don’t feel any pain. Breathe in, breathe out, nothing is happening, there is no pain. It’s a sensation, like tickling, and why should pain hurt while tickling tickles? It’s a feeling, and I don’t feel it.

 

Thrask prods with more pressure and I bite back a curse. Yeah okay okay I feel pain. Forget about breathing and get me a healing potion already, bitch please.

 

“Was that _really_ necessary?!” I snap, and Thrask holds up his hands.

 

“Yes,” he says, peering up at me with his lips pulled together and his eyebrows pulled into a frown. “I don’t think anything’s broken, just sprained. I can give you a healing potion for now, but I’d advise seeing a mage healer.”

 

“Lovely,” I mutter to myself, rolling my eyes. And mentally flipping off the sky, the Maker, God and the Flying Spaghetti Monster, because fuck my life. And my ribs. And training with _swords_. Maybe I should stick to a bow and arrow. But with my luck, I’d slice my face in half when the bowstring reverse catapults itself into my eyes or something dumb like that. Or, I don’t know, put the arrow on the bow pointy end backwards. Or just hold the bow backwards. Might be better off just whacking people on the head with it.

 

Hm… a quarterstaff might work. Maybe?

 

“Well, I’m off to see Anders, then,” I tell him with a sigh. “Help me put the plates back on, in case it helps stabilize stuff.”

 

Thrask complies, and no less than five minutes later, I’m shuffling my way from the Gallows to the docks, to go to… the Docks. On the other side of the… sea arm or whatever it’s called. Sue me for not keeping up my geography since Elementary.

 

I hate boats, and waves, and the sea for that matter. Today at least, because for the first time in my life the gentle rocking makes me nauseous and trying to breathe into cramped lungs isn’t making it any better.

 

Neither is the thought of having to see Anders a day after he tried to strangle me. I grit my teeth and breathe out through my nose. Squinting against the salty water (I’m not crying from the pain, I’m not a _wuss_ ), I wiggle my fingers and my toes and sigh in exasperation. Why, world, why are you doing this to me? Giving me a brand new body a bodybuilder would envy, and let me _break_ it? Well, sprain it, I guess. Whatever.

 

My thumb throbs and doesn’t obey my subconsciously given commands. Like trying to stretch an elastic beyond its bounds, if its bounds were one inch to either side. Great, a broken thumb is just what I needed. Or maybe it just got wrenched out of its socket. I know how to handle that, I saw it on Bondi Beach.

 

… The show, not the actual beach.

 

I pinch my thumb between my other thumb, my index and middle finger, grit my teeth and pull.

 

“ _Andraste’s hairy toenails!_ ” Forcing my thumb to pop back into its socket _hurts_. Thank the Maker that went well and I won’t have to walk with a crooked finger for the rest of my life.

 

The Templar on ferry duty raises an eyebrow at me, blonde beard twitching when he rubs his lips together. I roll my eyes and ignore him. He doesn’t inquire.

 

\-----

**Day 3 (17th of Drakonis) 11:20 AM**

 

Here’s a nice little tidbit about me: I get carsick. And when I get carsick, I get car _sick_. For the rest of the fucking day. My head feels like it’s going to explode, I may or may not have to dash for the nearest bathroom three times in a row to share my misery with the nearest porcelain throne, my eyes are convinced any lightsource is out to kill me, and all together I just want to bash my head into the nearest wall and knock myself out. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work. Hurtling yourself into a wall doesn’t knock you out, it just hurts, which tends to aggravate a migraine instead of giving you blissful unconsciousness.

 

In a perfect world, I’d take a triptan, pluck an ice-pack out of the freezer, put on a sleeping mask and crawl into bed and wallow in self-pity until exhaustion makes me pass out. In Thedas, I grit my teeth, continuously swallow back the vile taste in the back of my throat, and almost crawl into the nearest wall for support. I focus on the brittle mortar underneath my fingers, the panes with roses against Hightown’s mansions, the way my skin catches on the thorns, how a dewdrop on a ruby petal catches the light.

 

Me being me, I end up at the Alienage instead of Darktown. A bald elf (not the bald elf your mind immediately jumped to. Unless Solas got at least ten facial and ear piercings when no-one was looking) blinks at me in surprise, and moves aside so I can pass him.

 

“Uh, thanks.” My voice is raspy and I lick my lips. When is the last time I drank something? Oh, right, at seven or so. No wait, I had a bit of water during training. Maybe I should drink more water. Even if it is disgusting Kirkwall water. Distilled questionable flavors of decay, yum!

 

Digging a series of lakes for the water to sit still and get filtered by nature is moving up on my list of Things To Fix This Shithole (or TTFTS. Which sounds a bit like PTSD. I think?) My country is sort of famous for having clean nature-filtered water, but of course I never paid attention to how it worked in class.

 

Neither did I follow a survivalist course, or a first aid course, or push through higher education so I could become a physician, a behaviorist, or something a little more useful in Thedas than _accounting_. Sure, I had one kickboxing lesson and I used to lift heavy weights thrice a week, but I don’t have 25kgs laying around to Overhead Press into someone’s skull like a badass.

 

I slump against Merrill’s door by way of knocking, and almost fall on my face when it opens under my weight. Thanks, Merrill, pitching forward and adding a broken nose to this mess is just what I needed. I catch myself on the doorframe and blink at the floor through watery eyes. My head protests by throbbing even harder. Fuck, I’m not throwing up on Merrill’s doorstep. No way.

 

“Oh, hello, I wasn’t expecting any-” Merrill sounds cheerful enough, until she rounds the corner and stops dead in her tracks.

 

“Visitors?” she ends in a question, her green-brown eyes opened wide and her mouth hanging open. Oh god those _eyes_. Put her in the front lines and she’d bring an army to its knees. (Unfortunately it wouldn’t be the enemy.) Even in her gold dusty scarf, platemail with weird holes on her armpits and elbows (perfectly cut-off-arms proof, right?) and dark green tunic. Also, _feathers_! Feathered pauldrons, like Anders.

 

I think I’m in love. _Again_. I want to laugh, but my side screams when I chuckle in amusement.

 

“Ow.” I rub over my side as gently as I can. Merrill’s eyes become as large as saucers.

 

“Knight-Commander? Are you all right? Were you attacked? Were you mugged? I saw someone get mugged last week. Creators, come inside!”

 

I’m not sure if she’s inviting her Dalish gods to step into her humble home, or me, but I’m all she’s getting today. Besides, Kirkwall is doomed if Elgar'nan and friends ever set foot in _Merrill’s_ house, because it’s _Merrill_ and she’d blab about everything and everyone and trust them. Maybe even help them with whatever nefarious plans they have. Unless it’s Solas. They’d just get into a shouting match about the Dalish.

 

My head must be hurting real bad if I think the _Dread Wolf_ is a step up from anyone else.

 

“If your Creators can heal a sprained rib, then by all means offer them a cup of tea and a biscuit.” It slips out before I can stop myself. I roll my eyes and snort (oof). Merrill giggles, grabs me by the arm and hauls me toward the bed (ouch). Sitting down hurts, so I shove her away and stretch again and again and hold my breath until I become red in the face. I exhale deeply and point to my side.

 

“There. Sprained, I think. I was headed towards Anders’s actually, but uhm… I got lost?”

 

Merrill doesn’t even bat an eye and nods, pursing her lips, her hands hovering over my platemail.

 

“I get lost all the time, too. Oh, maybe Varric has some red yarn for you too, so you won’t get lost anymore.” Her face lights up in a smile and I can’t help but smile back. Also, me asking Varric for red yarn so I won’t get lost. Hehe. He’d fall off his chair in disbelief. Then have me admitted to the nearest hospice for lyrium-addled Templars.

 

“Or you can borrow mine if you want, and I can ask him for more,” she continues, dashing off toward a cupboard on the right side of the room. After shuffling through the top drawer for a few seconds, she clicks her tongue and yanks the entire thing out, upending it on the floor.

 

Tiny butter knives tinkle merrily against each other, followed by randomly shaped pieces of wood, dried flowers, an assortment of mismatched cutlery, something that looks like moldy elfroot, a ball of orange yarn, and the icing on the cake: a shard of jagged, wicked looking glass.

 

“Oh! How in the world did this get here? I really should clean up sometimes,” Merrill says, trailing off. She grabs the shard…

 

“Fenedhis! Hawke warned me about sharp objects, but I never listen.” I’m still baffled Dalish people say something like ‘Suck a wolf’s dick’ or maybe it’s ‘Suck off the Dread Wolf’? ‘Suck off Solas’? Hehehe.

 

The red droplets don’t register with me until she’s glanced at me. She twists her fingers in an elaborate intertwining motion (... what is she _doing_?) until both her thumbs point straight at me and just like that, the pain stops.

 

Everywhere.

 

The mild cramp in my lower body I wasn’t even aware of dissipates into nothingness. The ache between my shoulderblades is non-existent. No more pressure behind my eyes, no more throbbing inside my skull. The muscle in my side shudders before it just fades away. It still exists, duh, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.

 

“Holy shit,” I manage, staring at Merrill with wide eyes. Merrill takes one step back, covering her gaping mouth with a trembling hand, her chest heaving. Her eyes are even wider than mine, her lashes wet with unshed tears.

 

Oh. _Oh_. She’s worried about the blood magic.

 

I hold out my hands, palms facing forward. She starts and nearly trips over her own feet when she stumbles backward.

 

“No no no, it’s fine, you’re fine, we’re _fine_ ,” I blab, nodding vigorously at her. A lock of hair falls in front of my left eye and I puff at it. It keeps falling back and I roll my eyes in exasperation.

 

“Creators have mercy on you, because I sure won’t.” Her eyes harden. She holds the shard in her right hand and sets it on her palm, her entire body coiled with tension. A tiny droplet appears and she yelps, gritting her teeth and narrowing her eyes.

 

I catapult myself off the bed and tackle her. With lots of clanging from my armor, we crash to the ground. She hisses and shoves against my shoulders. Her nails scratch against my platemail, achieving zilch. I grab her wrist and wrench until she cries out. The black glass hits the ground unscathed, blood drips from Merrill’s fingers. Thank fuck she doesn’t have her wits about her, or I’d be dead already.

 

Panting, I shove her to the ground and pin her hands above her head, my knees digging into her upper legs. She writhes under me, her face contorted into pained desperation. Jesus Christ, her trembling lip and tightly shut eyes make me want to cry as well. Tears roll down her temples and catch on her lashes.

 

“Merrill!” I shout, and she cringes. Fuck, I didn’t mean to be so harsh.

 

“Merrill, come _on_ , calm down, _please_.” Begging doesn’t seem to work either. I’m not going to bitch-slap her into calmness, so… uh…

 

“Merrill, what did I tell you about leaving your door open while _what the fuck is going on in here_?!”

 

Looking over my shoulder, my eyes first land on her thighs. Duh? Of course the first thing I think of is _flesh_ instead of ‘hey, look, two daggers and an angry pirate lady!’

 

At least her clothes are more sensible than Merrill’s: Isabela has one leather glove with straps and buckles that reaches to her elbow, and a shoulder pad on her other elbow. Oh and a white corset with slits and stitches because girls still get to look sexy while being menacing. Fuck safety and all that.

In her hands are two daggers with rippled blades.

 

Fuck. My. Life.

 

“Eh. She tried to kill me after healing me with blood magic?” I try, and yeah it sounds absolutely ridiculous even if it is the truth. Isabela doesn’t even blink, just twists her blades around in her hands a few times before throwing them. Fuuuuu-

 

With hollow _thunks_ , they bury themselves up to their hilts into Merrill’s wooden floor, scathing the plate on the side of my knees. How the fuck did she throw one of them over me in such a trajectory that it’d hit my _knee_? That’s impossible, right? Unless she’s got telekinesis or something. Wait, where the fuck is she, anyway?

 

“I said let her go!” she yells.

 

No, you didn’t?

 

A foot hits me in the stomach from the other side, oh that’s how the blade got there, she ‘teleported’ to the other side of the room and then threw it. Her foot hits armor and she curses. I lose my balance and roll on my back. Before I can roll away, Isabela is on top of me. Shit that’s so ho- dangerous, very dangerous. Yes. Best convince her not to slit my throat with any spare daggers she might have hidden under her clothes. In between her breasts? On her thighs?

 

Ugh. I’m a disgusting person who has no sense of self-preservation.

 

“Okay, see, I’ve let go,” I say, wiggling my fingers. Her nails dig into my wrists, her thin knees manage to dig into my legs despite the armor. I wince.

 

“But she really _did_ try to kill me and I tackled her to stop her, so… Tell her Merrill, before Isabela tries to strangle me, too!” With difficulty, I tear my eyes away from Isabela and give Merrill a pleading glance. Merrill has scrambled off into a corner, her legs pulled up and her heels digging into the floor. All I see is her hair, because she’s laid her head on her arms around her knees. Oh, Merrill.

 

“I did, Isabela, you can let go.” Her voice is muffled and teary and oh god let me give her a hug, please. Isabela’s golden eyes burn into mine and her lips pull into a scowl.

 

Yes, yes, you hate me, Anders hates me, Hawke hates me, everyone hates me, I get it. Yeah, Orsino might have a crush on me but I’m pretty sure he hates me deep down inside.

 

You know, maybe I shouldn’t have been so optimistic about making friends, even without my old body and my old life. Maybe there’s no such thing as a fresh start and the universe just hates me in any incarnation.

 

“Fine, but one wrong move and I’ll flay you and sell your skin in Darktown’s bazaar.”

 

Hello Ramsay Bolton, what're you doing in Thedas and when did you become a woman? (And a pirate, for that matter.)

 

A dagger presses against my throat to emphasize the threat, and I swallow and nod with wide eyes. Satisfied, she pulls the dagger away and clambers off me. I don’t think I’m ready to get up, ever. So I just lay on the floor and stare at Merrill’s dilapidated ceiling. From the sound of it, Isabela storms toward Merrill.

 

“What the hell were you thinking? You should cut _her_ to ribbons, not yourself!” Isabela snaps. I wince.

 

With a sigh, I close my eyes and lay my hands over them. My heart clenches, something heavy falls through me, my fingers clench and dig into my eyebrows. Air puffs out through my nose, hot against my hands.  Blood rushes through in my ears and thrums with my heartbeat. My stomach flip-flops, my right calf cramps, a muscle in my neck flares with heat and cramp.

 

“ **I’M NOT MEREDITH FUCKING STANNARD, OKAY?! SO STOP STRESSING THE FUCK OUT!”**

 

My next breath feels like... the air turned into champagne or something. Freeing. I laugh and slap my hands against the dusty floorboards.

 

1.

 

2.

 

3...

 

“What the fuck. I don’t have enough rum for this,” Isabela says.

 

Isabela and Merrill? Not the first two persons I’d thought I’d voice this to. I haven’t even said it to _myself_. Not out loud, anyway. With a last hiccupped laughsob, I wave a trembling hand in their general direction.

 

“I’m going to need that rum. We’ll rotate. Oh, and Merrill, you haven’t tripped over any red jelly moths while you were in the Fade, have you?”

 

Merrill stares at me with wide eyes.

 

“... No?” she says hesitantly.

 

“Forget I asked.”

 

\-----

**Day 3 (17th of Drakonis) 04:30 PM**

 

“Soooooo… did you see the Maker?” Isabela asks from my lap, trying to pour the last bit of rum into my mouth. Most if it dribbles down my chin and Bela catches it by sticking out her tongue. Then she licks my chin. Seriously.

 

“Ew Bela, gross!” I grab her by the shoulders and push her back against the table, but she straddles me and won’t give. She grinds against me and I giggle like a lunatic. Merrill giggles in answer.

 

“What about… about… affirm… something… consent?” she asks, tongue-tied and tripping over her own words. Maaaaybe I shouldn’t have rambled about Thirteen Reasons Why and why Templars are extra evil for raping helpless mages. Merrill salutes us with another flask, spilling liquor over herself and the bed. Isabela wiggles her finger at Merrill.

 

“Uh-oh Daisy, you’d better stop that or we have to get you out of those clothes!”

 

Merrill, being drunk, slips her tunic over her head and tosses it in our direction. Drunk Merrill’s aim is amazeballs, because the tunic hits Isabela full in the face. Isabela gives a throaty laugh, drapes the tunic over my shoulder and gawks at Merrill, who apparently doesn’t do bras.

 

Ahem.

 

I blink, shake my head, grab Isabela’s hips to push her off me, and… what was I doing again, exactly? The faded, worn leather beneath my fingertips is warm and soft and _amazing_ and I want to peel it off her so I can touch her skin.

 

Wait, what?

 

“Uhhh Bela what’s in this stuff?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the ceiling instead of on Merrill’s… ehm… coconuts. This triggers a mental image of the three of us going ' _HEEEEY MACARENA_!' while wearing coconut bras, and I dissolve into more giggling, kneading Bela’s thighs. Something is going disastrously wrong here. Bela buries her face in my hair and her breath tickles my ear when she says:

 

“Oh, just a little pick-me-up,” in a low throaty voice and damn I want her to kiss me. Actually I want to grab her by an arm and a leg and toss her on the table like she’s some kind of giant ham with boobs, but ngg. Not a good idea Grethil… Greth… Gwen. Ugh why is my name so _looooong_? Meredith isn’t any better, either.

 

“Whazzat?”

 

Drunk Me is ineloquent and foolish and horny. Not a very good combination, all in all.

 

“Some powdered roots an Antivan Crow gave me.” She winks.

 

Hmm, roots from Zevran. Anything touched by Zev is food for the gods.

 

“Wazzit mandra… mand... mangdragra… drake... ish?”

 

Isabela frowns, her piercing wiggling when she bites her bottom lip. With a snort, she throws her hands in the air, tightening her legs around me, and says:

 

“Shit, I think I mixed them up, actually. Might’ve used the aphrodisiac. Oops.”

 

“ _So hoooorny_ ,” I sing. “ _Horny horny horny tonight.”_

 

A flask hits me on the head.

 

“Dread Wolf take you...r songs.” Merrill mumbles from her bed, where she flopped on her belly, her head buried into her pillows.

 

My singing would make Solas keel over into an early grave. Eureka, there’s my quick-fix to crack the Egg. I giggle.

 

“You’re sure you haven’t seen a red moth buzzing around to deliver a ‘Hullo’ to the Dread Wolf?”

 

Merrill squints, frowns and stretches her arms above her head.

 

“I don’t _think_ so. The Keeper never mentioned a red moth. Is it supposed to be a pet? But then why wouldn’t he just eat it?”

 

He’d eat the orb if he absorbs its powers, in a sense, right?

 

Noooo I’m not thinking about the apo...

 

Opaco…

 

Ugh. End of the world stuff, with brain-eating zombies and shit.

 

Hm… What would Solas do if he were surrounded by zombies?

 

Probably blow up the world.

 

 _Again_.  

 

I grimace and get up, shoving Isabela off me.

 

“Bye sweet thing, we should do this again. But more play. And less answering questions.” Isabela watches me leave, her head leaning in her hand. She wiggles her fingers and eyebrows at me, running her tongue along her upper teeth.

 

Less questions? By the time I had enough alcohol in me to tell them the entire story, they were both too drunk to listen, she asked me one question and tried to drown me in rum. I might’ve told them a bit too much, like about the French girl I’d kissed on my holiday in Lisbon. I don’t even remember how _that_ came up in a conversation starting with: ‘I got shot and woke up in Thedas.’

 

“Yeah yeah, fine, more play. Deal.” I wave at them and stumble out of Merrill’s humble Alienage home, nearly falling on my face. The cold air hits me like a hammer to an anvil. Ow. I bring my hand up to the side of my head and grimace. My tongue feels like someone tied a brick around it. My eyes want to roll out of my head and hide in a dark, silent place. I’m also still riled up from Bela’s not entirely unwelcome assault.

 

Also, unintentional Thedosian date-rape drug, courtesy from _Zevrrran_ the sexy schmexy assassin.

 

Perfect state for a healer visit, right?

 

Anders ain't a chunk of frustrated testosterone with a cockblocking spirit in his head. And even if he is, he'll control himself.  And I ain't a horny slut. I don't give a shit that I can drool over Anders, Fenris, Merrill _and_ Isabela, and I'm not a slut for entertaining the occassional ~~kinky~~   ~~gangbang~~ fantasy.

 


	7. Dissent

 

\-----

**Day 3 (17th of Drakonis) 04:50 PM**

I find the Clinic within record time. Huh, guess Drunk Me’s internal navigation system has had an upgrade. And fall through the door. But I catch myself and hang in the doorway like a drunk flying squirrel and smile at Anders when he sees me. I try to wave, too, and stumble forward and drop to my knees, wincing at the impact. From this vantage point, Anders looks taller. I crane my head back when he rushes to my side and giggle at his wide eyes and creased brows.

 

“I’m drunk,” I tell him, still giggling and hiccuping. Anders gapes at me, his eyes taking me in.

 

“‘Twas Bela,” I explain, slapping my cheeks. Somewhere deep down inside my head there’s a voice knowing I’m not like this, pleading with me to pay attention, to see stuff, to think clearly.

 

Lalala ignored.

 

“I can see that,” Anders says, rubbing his chin. Dimples peek out from under his hand. I want to kiss them. I mean I like them. I like him. Heh.

 

“I like you,” I tell him, batting my eyelashes. He snorts and shakes his head, closing his eyes.

 

“I tried to strangle you,” he reminds me, wincing.

 

“I liked that, too. It was hot.”

 

Why is he biting his hand like that?

 

“Do you like doing that? I can do it for you.”

 

He lets out a muffled groan and shakes his head, breathing out through his nose. I crawl over to him and peer up at him.

 

“You like having me on my knees?”

 

“Yeah you’re drunk.” He turns around, running his hands through his hair.

 

“I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” I ask, letting myself fall backwards.

 

He chuckles. “Yes, you’re dreaming. Or maybe I’m dreaming and you’re a Desire Demon...” He trails off, moving to the door in the back of the clinic.

 

Dusty floorboards creak. I rub my cheek in the dust and peer under a cot. Beady eyes on a puffy ball of fur keep me in sight suspiciously.

 

“Hah, you have a pet! It’s cute. C’mere little guy,”

 

His footfall stops next to me. “A pet? Is it a cat? Where?” he asks in rapid succession.

 

I know the way to get him into my bed! Dress up as a cat!

 

He hands me a foaming purple potion (how am I supposed to drink foam?)

 

"Something to sober you up. Might give you a killer hangover tomorrow though." He grimaces and pulls himself under the cot by his hands. The rat squeaks and scampers off, Anders lets out a girly shriek and bangs his head against the cot’s frame. Ha! He’s afraid of rats!

 

Why is he living in Darktown, again?

 

"You have cobwebs in your hair." I smirk at him, tilting my head to the side.

 

"Ugh." He scratches through his hair and over his scalp like he's trying to shake out fleas (ew, he might actually have fleas because Darktown and rats) and looks like a ball of electrocuted fluff by the time he's brushing his hair out of his eyes. I snort, press my hand against my mouth and shake my head, my eyes closed and my shoulders shaking from laughter.

 

"That bad?" He grabs a lock between two fingers, pulls it over his shoulder and winces.

 

"I can braid it for you, if you want." Please say no. I can't braid to save my life. If I'm ever locked in a tower and have to braid a rope from my hair, it'll untangle within seconds and I'll plummet to my death.

 

Tucking his chin to his chest, he casts his eyes up at me, eyebrows raised. I hold up my hands and shrug.

 

"Yeah I didn't believe myself, either." I crack a smile and he snorts, shaking his head. He leans against the cot with crossed legs, hands on his thighs.

 

"You have nice thighs. And a nice ass. Nice-ass. Huh." Damn you, brains. Anders drops his head into his hands and groans.

 

"Please drink the potion before you embarrass yourself even more," he says, rubbing his forehead. I knock it back in one go and gag on the sugary sweetness of it. It's like liquid candyfloss. Gross. Anders laughs at my bare-toothed grimace and lifted eyebrows.

 

"I know, it's awful. But it always works."

 

Oh God no what did I say to him? Why did I think all that was a good idea?  Ugh and what the fuck did I tell Isabela and Merrill? Merrill. Merrill, who can’t keep a secret to save her life. Oh God what the fuck did I do. Everyone’s gonna know in no-time. Carver won’t take me seriously anymore. Cullen’s glare will cremate hamburgers.

 

“Oh shit shit shit.” I mutter, facepalming.

 

“Do you want the short version or the long version of how I’m here?” I ask, bending my knees into the air and leaning my head on my hand.

 

Anders blinks. “Let’s start with the short version?”

 

“I died. I woke up. Saw a moth. Got drunk three days later. The end.” I look up at him through my lashes. His frown is pensive, his lips pursed in thought. He taps his arms with his fingers. His nails are immaculately clean, even if they’ve been bitten off to the quick.

 

“... And the long version?” he hedges.

 

“Some random stranger broke into my house, put a bullet through my head - a bullet is like a tiny deadly arrow -  kicked my ribs into smithereens, and I drowned in my own blood. I woke up here, sans hole in my head, sans broken ribs, and sans blood. On the floor, I mean. The blood.” I wave it away with a shrug.

 

He puffs out his cheeks and leans his head against the cot, giving me a sideways glance.

 

I push myself up halfway and extend a hand. He stares at my outstretched hand and blinks in bewilderment.

 

"We're starting over," I tell him, shoving my hand a few inches toward him. "Hi, I'm your friendly neighborhood Knight-Commander, Bitchface McSnarl." My lips are going to fall off from smirking. Anders's lips twitch and he slips his fingers between mine, giving a half-hearted shake.

 

"Nice to meet you, Commander Bitchface," he says with a laugh. The skin around his eyes crinkles. Damn he looks young when he smiles.

 

"I'm Anders, your friendly neighbourhood Grey Warden deserter. I own this Clinic. Well, technically, I squat in this Clinic. But no-one has kicked me out yet and someone even donates."

 

I give my thighs a slap. "Great, progress. Now what?"

 

Anders shrugs.

 

"Have you ever heard of a game called Templars and Mages?"

 

“Sounds kinky.”

 

Anders rolls his eyes.

 

“It’s not.”

 

I shake my head and he smirks, shuffling a little closer. He pulls a piece of paper out of his robes and holds it in the palm of his hand.

 

"It started as a game between me and a friend - yes, a Templar friend, I know, I know." He rolls his eyes, rubbing over the paper with his thumb. Is he blushing? I angle my head. Yep, he’s definitely blushing. Ohoo, Mr. Rebellion had a Templar friend.

 

"What are the rules?" I ask, crossing my legs as well and leaning forward. Hair falls over my cheeks. Anders chuckles.

 

“I use magic to make this piece of paper float, you disrupt my magic so the paper falls. If the paper touches my hand, you win. If I get it to float beyond your reach, or burn, I win."

 

"Are we betting on something?" I ask, tilting my head to the side and pursing my lips. “I don't really have anything to bet on except my clothes and I'm not going home naked."

 

Anders purses his lips.

 

"How about questions? You win, you get to ask me something. I win, I get to ask you something."

 

"AMA." I don't abbreviates, which makes shit like "as fuck" sound like "af", and as expected Anders frowns in confusion.

 

"Ask me anything," I clarify, and he nods, twisting the paper between his fingers like it's a slithering snake, before putting it back on his palm.

 

"Round one," he says cheerfully, eyes focused on the paper. Heat vibrates in the air around his hand and sure enough, the paper slowly floats a few inches into the air. He pinches his fingers together and pulls his hand down slowly. I watch for a few seconds. Anders frowns, his lips pressed together and his eyes squinting. Sigh, he looks hot when he's focused. Even when he looks like an exploded fluffball.

 

I hover my hand above the floating paper and hesitate.

 

"Go ahead," he says with a nod, eyes never leaving his hand.

 

Okidoki.

 

I concentrate on the palm of my hand and white glowing energy gathers inside, pressing against the paper. Almost as if I'm trying to force it back down. I'm not sure if that's the right way to cancel out his magic, but it's not like he gave me any instructions, so whatever. The paper stops floating up, instead bobbing up and down in place, which is the desired effect, so yay.

 

"Good," he says, lifting his eyes to me and flashing me a quick smile.

 

"Now give a gentle push."

 

I snort. "I wasn't aware I was in labor."

 

Anders chokes on a laugh and I shove my hand down. The paper shudders for a second before it stabilizes. Damn it.

 

"That's cheating," he says. But he's still cheerful. I shrug.

 

"I'm a woman. Women are allowed to cheat."

 

He snorts again.

 

"If you were with Isabela, she must've made a man out of you." He wiggles his eyebrows with a leery smirk. Oh my god. My eyes widen. Quick as lightning, Anders maneuvers the paper out from under my hand, gaining a few inches in height. (The piece of paper, not Anders himself. He's not that excited about his own joke.)

 

"That's cheating. And no, she did not." I replace my hand above the paper, gather energy and snap my fingers shut, bringing my fist down. Anders draws in a breath through his teeth and yanks his hand out from under mine, shaking it out.

 

"Shit, did that hurt?" I ask, scrambling toward him. He holds up a hand and shakes his head.

 

"No. Your smites are cold." He says it like it's a novelty. I blink at him.

 

"Sorry?" He chuckles and shakes his head.

 

"It's fine. Bitchface 1, Nice-ass zilch. AMA."

 

I raise my eyebrows. "Anything?"

 

He shrugs with a smile. "Sure."

 

I blink once and ask: "How's the Mage Underground doing?"

 

His jaws drops.

 

**\-----**

**Day 3 (17th of Drakonis) 05:20 PM**

 

The paper floats out of my reach, and I make a futile grab for it in a last-ditch effort. Anders laughs and snatches it up in his own fingers.

 

"Nice-ass 5, Bitchface 3. My turn." He turns his genuine smile on me and dear Lord, I'm pretty sure my heart just melted into a puddle of goo.

 

Question number 1 was how I knew about the Mage Underground. I babbled something vague about Orsino and connections and shit, which was convincing enough. Phew. The rest was just random stuff, like if I sleep better on my right side or left side, and if I'd rather eat Lowtown's baked rat or Hightown's baked pheasant legs. (I went with rat, which had him blinking at me until I explained pheasants are too pretty to eat.)

 

"Hit me," I say, bumping against his shoulder. At some point during the game my leg started cramping up and I used this as an excuse to sit next to him. Heh. He smirks and gives me a sideway glance.

 

"The Mabari or the Chantry Sister?"

 

I blink at him. "Uh, what? Since when are Chantry Sisters kept as pets? What do you feed them, the Chant of Light?"

 

He laughs, shaking his head.

 

"I meant for sex. I hope I don't have to demonstrate?" He wiggles his eyebrows and I roll my eyes.

 

"I think I can form a mental image just fine, thanks. Mabari, by the way. Totally."

 

His eyes dart up and down and his smirk widens.

 

"I'm usually a cat person, but sex is the only exception."

 

Oh dear, I don't want to know what anyone would make of that without context.

 

"Wooh, we have something in common. Box." I hold out my fist. I think the gesture is universal, because he bumps his knuckles against mine with a chuckle. 'Box' doesn't mean a cardboard box in my language, by the way, it means the same as 'boxing'. Old habits die hard.

 

"So... Left-handed or right-handed?" I ask. I don't think he realizes we're not trying to make paper float anymore, because he bumps against my shoulder and asks:

 

"In what context?"

 

I roll my eyes. "Non-sexual."

 

"Right-handed. You?"

 

I shrug and look down at my hands.

 

"Technically I'm a leftie. I still feel like a leftie. It's frustrating, not being able to write with my left hand. No more than illegible scribbles anyway."

 

"But you can write with your right hand?" He asks. I nod and shrug.

 

"It feels weird, but at least I don't smudge whatever I wrote by dragging my own arm through the ink." Anders snorts and I bump my hip against his.

 

"Seriously, it was annoying. Especially if I managed to write something readable for once."

 

He shakes his head, biting his lip to keep from smirking. It doesn't work, the dimples still show up.

 

"So... any life goals?" he asks. Does he even realize he could've asked me what I'm doing here, or how I got here, but instead he's asking random questions? Besides, what are my life goals? What were my life goals before my life got turned upside down and inside out, anyway?

 

"Hm. Before it was just... getting a better job, I guess. Finding my talent in life. I wrote some poetry every now and then, but I don't think I was any good. I still remember one, but it's in my native language. You wouldn't understand a word of it." I shrug.

 

He laughs. "I know a poem. It's pretty cringe-worthy. And not mine, mind you."

 

Cringe-worthy says it all.

 

" _The symphony I see in thee, something something, empty flattery, come to my bed._ "

 

I lean my head back and look up, one hand thrown dramatically over my eyes. Anders draws in a deep breath and exhales slowly.

 

"So... should I inform Lyna her fiancee is flirting with other people?" he asks when I've dropped my arms back to the ground. I snort and shake my head.

 

"No need. I didn't get it from the source."

 

"The source being a corpse," he says dryly.

 

Oh, right. Forgot about that. "I didn't mean the target, obviously. I think I would've bolted if a corpse tried to flirt with me."

 

Anders gives a dramatic shudder and I laugh.

 

"Not that my poems were much better, honestly. Wait, give a minute to translate something."

 

Shit, make something up. Anything. What rhymes with 'ass' or 'abomination'?

 

" _Oh my friendly abomination_  
_Shout it in the Gallows_  
_And get a free cremation_  
_Oops, I didn't mean to foreshadow_  
_Though it's not my first mistake_  
_But know this, my friend with pretty eyes_  
_I'll surely die from heartache_  
_When my friendly abomination dies_ "

 

Anders snorts and scratches his back. I start scratching for him and he sighs. I used to do this for anyone I was close enough with (emotionally. So they wouldn’t run away screaming) to help scratch hard-to-reach places. Anders leans into my hand, simultaneously scratching his ankle.

 

"Strays give you fleas?" I tease. He chuckles, looking at me from the corner of his eyes, lips tugged into a half-smile.

 

"I give them something for that, actually. Any chance you want to help wrangle unwilling cats into a bathtub, until everything but the cat is soaked through?"

 

I laugh. "Ever seen a cat sticking to a wall above a tub? Because I have. Sure, I'll wrangle cats for you."

 

**\-----**

**Day 3 (17th of Drakonis) 08:00 PM**

 

"You punched Alrik in the face?! Can I marry you?" Anders asks, sounding a bit too worshipy to my tastes. I roll my eyes.

 

"I have commitment issues," I say.

 

I do, actually. The thought of having to live with someone is kind of stifling, even though I'm not obligated to share my thoughts with someone 24/7. Still... if I find out that, I don't know, didgeridoo is the hobby I never intended to do for longer than a month, I'd like to add that to my list of failed hobbies without witnesses, thank you very much. Kind of hard to do when someone's living in the same house, unless I build myself a soundproof basement.

 

He nods. "No marriage, got it. Can I offer you a non purple-foam drink instead?"

 

I shrug. "What've you got?"

 

He purses his lips and counts on his fingers. "Ale, ale, more ale, a half-finished bottle of rum Isabela left. Something Dalish Merrill gave me once as a welcoming gift. And, uh, Grey Warden vintage I stole when I left."

 

"No to everything above. Especially to the Grey Warden stuff." I say with wide eyes. I'm not drinking anything that might have been vintage in -200 Ancient. I doubt it’s got any Blight Disease remnants, but I ain't taking risks.

 

Sure, I was bummed the Grey Wardens didn't exist in real life. Until they existed in real life and I realized thirty years is short when you've just received a second chance at living.

 

"Hm," Anders says, tapping his chin. "I'm pretty sure Hawke saved a bottle of Aggreggio out of Fenris's hands once. I don't think we finished it, but my memories are fuzzy and Justice was pissed at me the day after."

 

“Does Fenris know Hawke shared it with _you_?” I ask with a blink. Anders shrugs.

 

**\-----**

**Day 3 (17th of Drakonis) 11:42 PM**

 

"Do you know anything about a Tranquil Solution?" he hedges, and my heart sinks, my scalp tingles and the back of my neck prickles.

 

"Shit," I say, slapping my thighs. "Shit shit shit. Okay, uhm, you're either going to follow my exact instructions, or we're going to need more people. What time is it?"

 

Anders frowns, strides to the front room of the Clinic and opens the door.

 

"Almost midnight." His voice is muffled through the distance.

 

"Fuck," I snap. "Okay, no time for back-up then. We need to get to the secret entrance and intercept Alrik from his one-man mission to Tranquilize a mage named Ella. Only it's not a one-man mission, otherwise I'd let you go alone. Come on, grab your coat and let's kill some Templars."

 

My strides are long and quick enough to have him panting by the time we reach the sewers. Blegh. I don't want to go in. But I have to. I can't just leave Ella to her fate. I lay my hands on the manhole cover and take a deep breath, glancing at Anders, who's catching his breath.

 

"Can you do that, though?" He asks, pursing his lips.

 

“Can I do what?”

 

“Can you kill a man? It's not an easy thing to do," he says.

 

I press my lips together and put my hands on my hips, sighing. "I guess I'll find out."

 

We open up the manhole cover and he lets me go first.

 

"Oh my god Anders, you didn't have time to put something on underneath your robes? Seriously?" I ask, decidedly not looking up. Which leaves me looking down. Which leaves me nearly keeling over from vertigo and roaring blood in my ears. Oh god I'm going to fall to my death.

 

Also, spiders.

 

Anders clears his throat. "It's better than looking down, right?"

 

"Uh yeah, about that. I'm looking down right now. I wish I hadn't. There's giant spiders down there. Firebomb the fuck out of them, please."

 

Anders groans. "Do you have enough space to get between the ladder and the wall?”

 

"Hold up." Unhooking my right leg. I pull myself to the right with my hands and twist my leg around the ladder, planting it firmly on the rung. Okay, so far so good. Now all I have to do is swing around and to do that, I'll have to hang on with my hands.

 

My legs refuse to move. It's like the one time at school camp when we had to go over a rope bridge and the class bullies were behind me, hopping up and down and swinging left and right. My feet had been glued to the bridge, my knuckles white and my eyes wet with tears. I'd started hyperventilating.

 

But most importantly, I shut them out when they complained about my motionlessness, took a few deep breaths, told myself the bridge was safe (and we were attached through ropes and carabiners) and made my way across, ignoring the bullies all the way until my feet were back on the ground.

 

Only to slip in the mud and nearly fall down the mountainside if not for the tree I faceplanted into. I gave it a hug, a pat and thanked it for being there. Out loud.

 

At least now I'm wearing armor instead of summer gym clothes.

 

"One, two, three," I whisper, before swinging myself around.

 

Armor is heavy. It's too heavy. My fingers burn against the strain and slip, and my stomach lurches. Blood roars in my ears and drowns out whatever it is Anders shouts. The distance between me and the ladder stretches into an eternal second of weightlessness. My back slams into the wall and knocks my breath from my lungs. My skin pulls tight from blazing heat, my head slams into something solid and my teeth clash together, shattering on impact. Blood fills my mouth and choke on it while I plummet down into the darkness.

 

I crash into the ladder with my stomach and slip, scrabbling for something to hold on to before gravity catches up and I hit my head again. A bright sun blazes above my head, obscuring Anders from view. My hands flail on their own accord, my fingers slap against the rungs one by one until there are none left and I hit the ground. I crush one spider under me, breaking my fall somewhat. My hips twist.

 

Something warm and wet gushes out of my shoulderblades and sides. My hands sting, and I lift one up. A round hole about an inch in diameter where there should be skin, ugly red and covered in purple goo.

 

A blue barrier slips over my skin seconds before the fireball hits the ground a hair's' breadth away from me, and shrouds the world in a flash of white. Spiders click, shriek and scurry away. My ears pop and ring. A burning leg punctures through my shoulder and I scream when it pulls out, the smell of sizzling human flesh filling my nose.

 

The fireball fizzles out and makes way for cold, damp air. The spider freezes into a solid block of crackling ice. Through the ringing in my ears, a soft thud announces that Anders dropped himself from a safe height and hit the ground.

 

"Meredith?!" Anders asks, somewhat breathless. I open my eyes and blink, and see nothing.

 

"I can't see," I mutter, strangely high-pitched and hoarse. My teeth click together and something crunches into brittle pieces, floating around in the blood in my mouth. I spit it out. Against better judgment I drag my tongue over what remains of my teeth and wince when something sharp slices into the soft flesh.

 

I roll onto my side and vomit.

 

A girl's terrified, agonized shriek joins my dry heaves and I gasp for air, forcing myself to spit out words besides bits of broken teeth.

 

"Ella. Go. Just go." I gesture in what might be the right direction and the floor tilts with vertigo.

 

"I have to heal you now or else you might lose your sight." Anders says, all pretense of stealth abandoned in favor of getting his point across. I shake my head.

 

"He'll Tranquilize and rape her if you don't go. For fuck's sake Anders, you've known me for what? Two days? How hard can it be to walk away?"

 

Ella shrieks again, high-pitched and uncontrolled, until her ragged breaths and strangled sobs are muffled. Anders groans next to me and I feel my way toward him until my fingers brush over his knuckles. He drags in one heavy breath after another, his fingers digging into the ground. I feel my way up his arm to his shoulder and oh god, he's shaking. His entire body is shaking uncontrollably and he chokes back a sob.

 

"I can't, I can't. Don't make me go to him, please." His voice is hoarse and raspy and breaks my heart.

 

Don't make me go to him. To Alrik, or someone else? Kinloch wasn't the friendliest Circle, either.

 

"Please," he grinds out. Tears drip on my other hand, the one still touching his hand and I intertwine our fingers and give a squeeze. He just about crushes my hand in his, nails driving into the edges of the hole. I bite back a groan and he shuffles through the sand.

 

"I'm sorry," he whispers, barely audible. I spit out blood and dry heave. My spider wounds throb and my back aches. I squeeze his shoulder and shut out Ella's muffled sobs and groans.

 

"You said something about healing." My forehead burns, sweat stinging into my eyes. Anders coughs, pulls me closer and leans his chin on the top of my head.

 

"Close your eyes," he mutters before laying his hands over them. The blue light startles me and I jerk sharply against him. I bite my lip to have something else to concentrate on and whimper when my jagged teeth cut right through.

 

"Shh, I know, I know, I'll fix it." His voice is soothing and yet there's tension underneath. He takes his hands from my eyes and I blink them open immediately.

 

"Don't-"

 

Twisted legs, blood, muscles, something white gleams in the carnage, my foot bent in an angle that can’t be right.

 

"It doesn't hurt," I whisper, disbelieving. Anders groans and swallows, laying his hands on my shoulders. Pinpricks flare on my skin and I curl my hands into fists to keep myself from scratching. Anders releases a strangled breath against the top of my head.

 

"Please stop looking. I have to neutralize the venom first."

 

"Go," I whisper to him, but he shakes his head, biting his bottom lip and blinking rapidly.

 

For a second I forgot.

 

"I wish I could rip them apart with my bare hands," I whisper. Anders lets out something between a laugh and a sob and lays his hands on my sides, healing them through my armor.

 

"You're lucky to sit up without fainting." He hesitates a second before laying his hands on my outer thighs. They twitch and spasm when they are stuck with a thousand little phantom needles. I muffle a gasp into his shoulder.

 

"Thank the Maker you're not looking anymore."

 

I'm just fascinated by bones, blood and stuff. As long as my teeth aren't smashed out of my mouth.

 

"You can fix my teeth, right?"

 

Guilt twists in my stomach. What should I care about a few broken teeth while Ella is getting raped one corridor over?

 

Raped. She's getting raped. Raped. RAPED. Think about that, you stupid bitch, the next time you think you can handle shit on your own. There's nothing you can do about it, because you're dragging Anders down, and you can't even feel below your knees. Once again you were trying to play the hero and guess what? A girl got gang-raped by your Templars because you're too scared to line them up and have them executed. You didn't think when you kicked Alrik out, noooo you thought he'd stop. Well guess what? He didn't.

 

"I think I have enough lyrium for it," he says.

 

With a gut-wrenching crack, my foot pops back into place. I wiggle my toes (My mail got shred above my knees. When did that happen?) and sigh in relief when everything works.

 

Everything works. I can walk. I cast my eyes up at Anders and his eyes widen.

 

"Don't you dare. Besides, your hands-"

 

"Are fine." There's no pain, anyway. He can heal the holes later. I shove my hand against his chest and cast a Holy Smite. He falls, splayed out on the ground, eyes darting beneath his eyelids. I step over him and toe my sheath out from under a spider carcass.

 

"They'll kill you," he mutters, one cheek pressed into the ground. I bend forward and draw my blade. It smolders with fire. Soon, it'll have its fill in blood, be it mine or anyone else’s.

 

"I don't care. They won't kill her, and if I take at least one of them down with me, that's one less rapist in the world."

 

It might not even save another mage, but a dead guy is a dead guy.

 

"You can do more if you live," he protests, trying to push himself up. Blue cracks shimmer in and out of existence around him. I square my shoulders and walk past him.

 

"Don't think so, Anders. Give me something and give me enough time, and I'll find a way to break it even if I don't mean to."

 

I brush my hair behind my ears and lay the rest on my back so it's not in the way. Meredith, if you're in there somewhere, if you're watching, I'm sorry. That I can't gut myself and make you feel the pain every violated mage has felt at the hands of your Templars, under your eyes, under your reign.

 

I round the corner and step into view of a cavern with a high ceiling, platforms and boxes. Glowstones cast an eerie blue light on four Templar Archers. One in open view on the platform, one crouched and half-hidden behind a crate, the other two openly on my left and right on ground level. The left one has a shortbow and no arrows nocked, cursing and reaching for his quiver. The right one has three arrows on his longbow, and stares at me. He's young, his beard barely more than dark blond fluff, his head shaved, his green eyes wide. His face is long and angular.

 

He stares at me.

 

"Knight-Commander?" he asks, while Alrik shouts: "Shoot her! Shoot her!"

 

Young Templar hesitates. I roll to the side behind Shortbow, push myself to my feet and twist him in front of me. Two arrows bounce off Shortbow's armor, the third one nicks my earlobe when it goes through the back of his head. I snap the arrowhead off and slam it home into his brain stem. Like a sack of potatoes, he goes down.

 

Hell yeah, I can kill a man.

 

Blood pools into my mouth and I spit it out, baring my broken teeth at Young Templar. He backs up, holding his bow by the string in one hand and his full quiver in the other. He expects me to follow, into full view of his friends up on the platform.

 

"Not gonna happen, pal. Here's how it's going to go down. You're obviously skilled. You're going to let loose a rain of burning arrows above your buddies' heads up there. You're going to shoot Alrik in the legs and in his equipment. If you're a good shot, I'll let you live."

 

"I don't have fire arrows, only explosive ones. And regular ones." His throat bobs up and down and he blinks at me.

 

I snort. "Even better."

 

Jerkily, Young Templar nocks the first arrow, aims at the ceiling above the platform and looses. A second, third, fourth and fifth arrow follow even before the first one has hit its target and explodes into a ball of fire and white-hot shrapnel.

 

"No, shoot _her_!" Alrik shouts. He's on top of Ella, who's robes are torn. She doesn't move, not even when one of the archers catches fire and jumps, flailing to his death in the sand below, the air fanning the flames higher and higher.

 

Alrik pushes himself to his feet and falls down when an arrow hits his knee, splintering his kneecap. With a growl, he pushes himself up on his other knee, and Young Templar looses again with grim determination.

 

His hands shake when he releases the last arrow. It hits home and Alrik howls, falling on his back, clawing at the ground. He flails, shoves himself on his side, snaps the arrow in half and pulls it out with a shriek. Blood spurts and I laugh.

 

"Again," I order. Young Templar scrambles to obey, but Alrik rolls out of the way, both arrows in his knees snapping and pushing their way further in. On his belly, he pants and tries to drag himself away from me.

 

"Stop." I drop Certainty to the ground and put my foot on the pommel, rip Young Templar's bow out of his hands and snap it in two with my knee. The string lashes my hands but I don't care, letting it fall to the ground. I wedge my foot underneath Certainty's pommel and lift it into the air, catching it with my left hand.

 

I walk towards Alrik. He drags himself through the sand at a snail's pace, a river of blood soaking the sand behind him.

 

" _You_ , you're a stain on our Order, you'll ruin _everything_." He spits blood at me. I step on his elbow and grip Certainty with two hands, holding it above my head before driving it into his wrist. He screams and writhes while I twist and twist until blood surges out of his severed wrist in steady pulses. I do the same with the other.

 

He tries to push himself up with his elbows and slips in the blood, gasping and shaking.

 

"Oh yes, I'll ruin everything. I'll cut my way through the Order and destroy it limb by limb from the inside out. I'll move on to the Seekers, twisting my blade in the center until it's nothing but ash and smoke. And then, Alrik..."

 

I stand in front of him and admire the glittering blood on my blade.

 

"I'll work my way up into the Chantry and cut down everyone who disagrees with me." My voice is low and harsh, barely audible over the roaring flames. Smoke wafts past us every few seconds, but most of it drifts through hidden cracks in the ceiling. Through the smoke, something red and green flashes.

 

"You can't-" he growls, and I laugh and step on his bleeding stump. He screams and twitches.

 

"Can't I? I imagine it's nothing the Order hasn't done before. Or any Order, for that matter. Corruption blooms in the heart of power. I would say more, hold a speech, but I don't think you have that long."

 

"You're an abomination," he spits. I snort and hold up my right hand, clenched into a fist like a falconer. Moth drops down from the ceiling and perches on my hand, hissing and snapping in Alrik's direction.

 

"You want abominations?" I ask. "I'll give you abominations."

 

It would be just my bad luck if we're all staring at each other and nothing happens, but by the grace of the universe, the Fade appears around us. Alrik looks around, his eyes wide. A bereskärn raises his head up from a pile and huffs out a weary sigh.

 

"You have brought us a gift?" he asks, and I kick Alrik in the stomach. He rolls toward them and comes at a stop against the Sloth demon. More of them poke their heads up from their piles when they realize Alrik is solid. I shrug.

 

Okay gotta get out of here quick before they start wondering if I can take any of them into the real world without giving them a body.

 

Something roars in the distance. The clearing rumbles beneath us, the trees shake and every Sloth demon raises its head in weary interest. The nearest yawns, licking its giant teeth with an equally giant tongue.

 

"They recognized you as one of their own. I wouldn't linger if I were you," he says through another yawn. Another roar tears through the silence and I stumble backwards, slipping through wet sand. I’m back in the cave. Without Alrik. I smile. Young Templar falls to his knees and holds up his hands in surrender.

 

"I did as you said. You promised you'd let me live."

 

Moth _krrrr_ 's and flies away, disappearing into the smoke just when Anders rounds the corner. His eyes widen when he takes in my bloodied shape, my bloodied blade, and the burning platform behind me. He holds out his hand, the air sizzling and shuddering before a spark forms a ball of lightning.

 

"And I did not," he says with a shrug,  voice echoing and his eyes glowing blue. Young Templar screams, turns around and stills when a lightning bolt hits him from behind. His screams die instantly, his body jerking and convulsing.

 

Anders closes his hand, the lightning fizzles out and leaves nothing but the smell of fresh, clean air with a hint of... working blender?

 

I’m not kidding, that's what it smells like.

 

The cracks around Anders disappear, his eyes remaining Fade-blue. Without a second glance, he strides towards Ella and crouches down next to her, creating an orb of blue light in his hand.

 

"I'm sorry, mage. I was too late." With a sigh, he lays a hand on her forehead, casting a spell. Ella gasps, her fingers twist, her toes curl, she gurgles and chokes and the muscles in her legs convulse beneath her skin.

 

"No!" I shout, at the same moment she arches her back and something snaps like a dry twig. She falls back and doesn't move. Justice glances over his shoulder and shrugs.

 

"Your Tranquil might want to live, but she was violated by multiple Templars."

 

"You didn't ask her what she wanted."

 

Justice blinks at me. The blue orb in his hand turns yellow, and I narrowly maneuver my blade in the right position to block the bolt of lightning he shoots in my direction.

 

"Hey!" I shout, widening my eyes at him, raising my eyebrows. Shaking my head in disbelief, I point at him.

 

"You're going to give me Anders back right fucking now, Justice or Vengeance or... or... Judgment or whatever the fuck you are."

 

He raises his eyebrows at me. "And why would I let Anders back in control, mortal? I would have left you, as you asked. If it wasn't for him, Ella would still be alive."

 

I shake my head and rub my forehead.

 

" _You're_ the one who murdered her. _Anders_ did what he could."

 

Justice narrows his eyes. "He could have done more. He should have ignored his prior experiences-"

 

"It's called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and it's not something anyone can just ignore," I interrupt, taking a step closer.

 

"You might be too one-sided to realize that, but to mortals, things like this leave scars. They haunt us during the day and in our dreams. Every little candle flame is going to remind me of this, every pop from every hearthplace is going to transport me right back to this moment and this place, and it's going to be Hell."

 

He sighs through his nose, tapping his foot on the ground. I throw my hands in the air, nearly throwing my blade to the ground out of frustration.

 

"God, I can't believe I ever felt sorry for you, before," I mutter to myself, shaking my head. With a sigh and slouched shoulders, I turn around.

 

"Wait," he says.

 

"What?" I snap over my shoulder. Justice sighs and strides toward me, holding out his hands.

 

"I will heal your teeth, if you'll allow me to do so." He sounds hesitant, shifting his arms and looking down at the ground. An olive branch is an olive branch.

 

"Fine. Got any lyrium? I'd prefer to swish first."

 

I don't think you're supposed to use lyrium as mouthwash, or on wounds, but whatever. I'll take a year off my mental clarity if it means being able to eat without fainting from nerve pain.

 

And I'm vain, after all.

 

As expected, the lyrium he hands me burns and I sway, nearly dropping the flask.

 

Justice holds out his hand, palm upwards. Dragging my feet through the sand, I lay my chin on his hand, looking up at him blearily. Blue light glows, illuminating what I can see of my nose, before it turns too bright to look. My gums ache, before it fades into an annoying itch. My lips twitch. Justice blows out a deep breath and I open my eyes.

 

"Done?" I ask, blinking at him. Amber eyes look back at me.

 

"Done," Anders says

 

"Anders," I whisper. "We're surrounded by corpses in a place where the Veil is thin." I swallow.

 

"And Justice killed Ella."

 

He jerks back. I reach for him, but he evades me, dashing to Ella's side and dropping to his knees.

 

"Maker," he breathes, looking at her, his hands in his hair. Her eyes have fallen open, because that's what corpse’s eyes do when you don't sow them shut. Her robes are in tatters and covered in Alrik's drying blood and wet sand, her mouth opened in a silent scream, the sunburst branded on her forehead, her hands frozen in a last twitch.

 

"This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault," I blabber, grabbing Young Templar's rumpled and singed red coat. I lay it out next to Ella. Anders follows my every move as I lay her down gently, pulling the coat around her. Her muddied feet stick out, but it's either that or her hair.

 

(I don't want to look at her hair, I don't want to see the evidence of what Alrik did to her.)

 

The burning platform is separated from the others, only accessible through another cave. I lean Ella against my shoulder, keeping her in place with my elbow, and make my way up to the platform next to it. Smoke prickles in my throat and I cough. I eyeball the trajectory and try to give her to the flames as dignified as I can, despite having to throw her. Fiery tongues lick at the coat and accept her eagerly.

 

I shiver and descend, heedless of the splinters and pebbles pricking into the soles of my feet.

 

"Thank you," Anders whispers, looking at his feet, fists clenched at his side. I press my lips together, forcing them into a close-lipped smile.

 

"It was the least I could do. For both of you." I put my hand between his shoulderblades and guide him back, towards the Clinic.

 

"Come on, I'll make sure you get back, and then I'll take care of the rest."

 

He doesn't even protest beyond muttering something incoherent, swaying on his feet.

 

He also forgets to heal my hands. I don't have the heart to mention it.

 

\-----

**Day 4 (18th of Drakonis) 01:50 AM**

 

True to my word, I strip the dead Templars of any gear that won't burn and throw them on the make-shift pyre. After checking for a pulse. You never know.

 

And a good thing, too, because a steady heartbeat thrums against Young Templar's neck. With a shrug, I gather him up in my arms, slowly making my way toward the ladder that leads to the Gallows. Without armor, he's almost as light as Ella, and I throw him over my shoulder and climb up.

 

I told him I’d let him live, and the universe apparently decided he'd live, so he gets to live.

 

I just hope Thrask will let _me_ live.


	8. Violation

**(Unspecified Time)**

 

Around me, there is only darkness. I see nothing, not even my hands. Are there walls around me? I’m not sure. I don’t see them, I don’t feel them. Ice cold stone digs into my knees. Why am I on my knees? I try to move my legs, and something jars and clangs, digging into my ankles and restricting my movements. Cold air stings my lungs every time I breathe in, blowing out only a little warmer. If there was light, I’d probably see white mist, but light doesn’t exist. Drip drip drip. Water? I shake my head, greasy hair slapping into my face. Hair pokes into my eyes, and I bring up shaking hands to brush it away. My hands are thick, calloused, pinpricks sting through my fingers. I curl and uncurl them and wince at the stiffness. Something grates against my wrists, something heavy and cold. What the fuck is going on?

 

I yank my right leg forward. Something rattles until it’s stretched taut. Creaking, sand shifts somewhere. Out of my reach? I yank my other leg forward and fall, nails catching against mortar and stone. It scrapes over my right cheek and something warm and wet trickles down. My fingers brush over the stones, my nails catch and break on the seams. There are tunnels here, somewhere, and if I can find them, I can go… somewhere.

 

I don’t know why I’m searching for tunnels. I don’t remember what happened. I just know that my heart is beating a steady rhythm in my chest, and that I feel no urgency. Why not? Shouldn’t I be afraid? Maybe I’ve been in the dark for too long to be afraid any longer. After a time, fear becomes exhausting and gives way to apathy, otherwise everyone who felt fear would drop dead from a heart attack.

 

What _do_ I know? I’m surrounded by darkness, surrounded by cold and stone. Rattling cold bindings restrict my movements. Chains? Shackles? I grit my teeth and move my hands in opposite directions, until something stops them with a jarring feeling. I pull again and it doesn’t give another inch. I bring my hands close together and explore with my fingers. Yes, definitely shackles. But why? What happened to me?

 

Think. What is the last thing you remember?

 

Anders. Vengeance. Ella. Tranquilized, she’d been Tranquilized. And violated. And like a goddess of revenge, I’d cut through Alrik’s wrists and left him in the Fade, in the middle of a pack of Sloth demons.

 

I don’t remember why I was angry enough to yank someone else in front of me to take the arrows meant for me. Or why I left Alrik in the Fade.

 

The Fade. I need to get into the Fade. It was important. I don’t remember why.

 

**(Unspecified Time)**

 

With nothing left to do and time both trickling by and slipping through my fingers, I intertwine my fingers and pray. Blessed are the champions of the just, and so forth, and so forth. I don’t remember the entire Chant, only pieces, so I slip other prayers in between. Our Father in Heaven, some biblical stories I remember from Elementary school and the one time I paged through the Bible a friend gave me. I do it without motivation, without expectation. And when my throat is too dry and hoarse to recite anymore, I continue in my head.

 

In stretches, there is only darkness. I don’t even know if I’m getting any food or water, but my continued existence speaks volumes. I can feel every rib, my hips hurt when I stretch out on my belly to alleviate the pain in my knees. My lips are dry and cracked and wetting them only makes it worse. Finally, when even my mental voice cannot go on any longer, I close my eyes (not that I saw much to begin with) and focus on my breathing. This is when time and reality crumble down around me, when reality and unreality mingle and intertwine and become a bared half-truth.

 

Begging wakes me up. Almost inside my right ear, someone sobs and pleads for it to stop, for the pain to end, until her voice is muffled and her cries fade into ragged breaths. I lie awake in the darkness and blink, straining my ears. The sound splits, layering. Underneath the gasps and the grunts flows a river of clicking and snapping, hissing and spitting. Until that sound splits into something else and overlaps with crackling fire and hissing steam. Copper pools into my mouth.

 

And then there is light. A bright blue orb hangs in the corner of the room that isn’t a room, because there are no walls, only darkness. We all know the saying: there is no light without darkness and no darkness without light, but this is taking it a bit too literally. The crackling fire becomes the crackling of ice, before it shatters and rains splinters down on my skin. My skin burns where they touch, but only a little. Shards tinkle on the floor in a cacophony of sound, until a vibration flows underneath. Before long, the vibration becomes louder and louder until it bangs inside my skull like an electric chainsaw.

 

Mist and light swirl from the blue orb and become an incorporeal white dragon with majestic horns. The sound it makes is a chilling smokey _ha ha ha ha_ , before it folds its legs underneath its body and looks at me over its shoulder. I reach out slowly, I don’t remember why I have to move slowly, until my fingers touch the light and it falls apart into fading wisps and mist.

 

**(Unspecified Time)**

 

 

Later, much later

 

(Or maybe just three seconds later)

 

Sleep deprivation and darkness are two factors contributing to hallucinations. It’s probably why there’s a bees nest inside my skull, buzzing from inside out. It’s probably why I watched a small pink worm disappear into the holes in my hands, and thought nothing of it. Vaguely, I remember I once thought I’d chop off my hand if anything got underneath my skin. I don’t remember why it was such a big deal, so I leave it as it is. I can’t do anything about it shackled, anyway.

 

My thighs hurt. My throat hurts. I’m drowning in a river of blue shimmering light, a fist of light slamming into my throat while ethereal seaweed winds itself around my hands and weaves itself through my hair and pulls both upwards. Water ebbs and flows between my legs, warm and sticky, mixing with sweat and filth. I try to scream and breathe in shimmering water instead, gagging and choking and scratching at the seaweed.

 

I don’t remember why struggling is important, only that I should do it.

 

I don’t need motivation, or an explanation, or a memory to want to do something.

 

That’s the thing, isn’t it? Memories and feelings are just one fragment of a whole. Fingers of seaweed caress my thighs, wrap around my neck and squeeze, and my legs trample inside a void of blue light of their own accord. A door closes with the sound of a gunshot, and the seaweed and light disintegrate from existence, leaving me alone with the blue orb in the corner of the room. Warm water dribbles down my chin and I should scream, I should scratch and I should throw myself against the bars of my cell, but at the same time everything drags by and my thoughts drift away on a slow wind.

 

**(Unspecified Time)**

 

She comes to me when  I’m stretched thin over the abyss between sleeping and waking. She’s light and mist and darkness and sound, undefined by lines and yet a clear form. Iridescent blond hair tumbles over her shoulders and over her Templar armor. Her striking blue eyes look down at me with contempt, not even a sliver of sympathy in the harsh depths. Her hands rest on the pommel of her sword, clenched so tightly her knuckles turn white. Her lips are pressed together, her eyes narrowed.

 

“ _This_ is Andraste’s Champion?” she asks, pacing back and forth in front of me, shaking her head. I let out a rough chuckle and she spins on me, punching me in the gut. Groaning, I hunch in on myself and fold my arms around my stomach, tears gathering in my eyes. Meredith Stannard clicks her tongue against her teeth and crosses her arms over her chest. Hello, This Shit Is Serious stance.

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I rasp, holding up my chained hands. “Right now I’m the Champion of Chains. Fitting, I guess, since I’m living in the City of Chains and all.”

 

My joke leaves her unimpressed. She rolls her eyes, her lips twisting into a scowl.

 

“ _This_ is what I Tranquilized myself for?” she asks, throwing her hands in the air. I draw in a quick breath and stare at her, my eyes following her as she paces left and right.

 

Excuse me while I keel over from shock.

 

“You did **_what_**?” I ask, still following her with my eyes. Meredith stops dead in her tracks and whirls on me, and I throw myself to the side. Her kick narrowly misses my shoulder and I shudder, tucking my arms against my waist and pulling my legs close to my body. The left chain rattles softly.

 

“I couldn’t _think_ ,” Meredith spits at me, glaring at me as if I’m responsible.

 

“Kirkwall collapsed around me. Mages escaped, or turned into demons, and there was no way to let it go on any further. I was _this_ far from invoking the right of annulment on the entire Circle, mages and Templars both.” She pinches her thumb and index finger close together, with only an inch of empty space in between. My eyes widen and my mouth falls open. She laughs without mirth.

 

“Yes, kill all of them, I thought. Because what was the point? I’d seen them drag mages into dark corners and looked away.” She shrugs. “And if I didn’t, I distracted myself by investigating the Viscount and his schemes.”

 

“So you thought: ‘hey, let’s Tranquilize myself so I can think clearly?’” I ask. She rounds on me and I cover my head with my hands, but no kicks or punches follow. Hesitantly, I look up, and she’s looking at me with a small smile and a glint in her eyes, her hands clenched into fists.

 

“Exactly!” she says, nodding. Oh boy, she thinks I see logic in her plan. I guess there’s _some_ logic, apart from the fact that no-one would make a Tranquil the Knight-Commander.

 

“And then they deposed you?” I ask. She shakes her head and laughs. I raise my eyebrows.

 

“I hid myself well enough. Told them I was going to the Vinmark mountains to meditate and clear my head. That much was true, I suppose. They let me go with little interference. I prayed to the Maker and Andraste for a time and pressed the Brand against my forehead.”

 

 _Ouch_. I wince. She snorts. “Pain is fleeting and only a discomfort. The real pain stems from not seeing clearly, from being distracted by every little thought and sensation. For the first time in years, I could _see_ . Not just what my eyes wanted me to see, but I could see what was really _there_. I could _hear_ without the song muffling everything else in the background.”

 

The song? From the Red Lyrium Blade? From the Darkspawn Taint? The song Karl talked about? Humans do have a connection to the Fade, so maybe we hear the song, but aren’t aware? Meredith was aware, apparently.

 

“And then what happened?” I ask. Huh, and suddenly I’m a counselor and Meredith is a patient and I’m trying to scratch a layer of concrete off her repressed memories. Nice mental image, but no.

 

Meredith scoffs and leans against the wall and looks down at me. She does have a thing for looking down at people, doesn’t she?

 

“I prayed. With a clear mind, I hoped I would be more receptive to the Maker’s words. And you won’t believe what I saw…” her voice softens, her eyes glint with tears, she presses her lips together and wrings her hands.

 

‘Woman stays in mountains to meditate, and you won’t believe what happened next. Click here for an article that’s only vaguely related to its clickbait title.’

 

I tilt my head to the side, rolling my eyes. “Let me guess: you saw the Maker. No, wait, you mentioned Andraste. So, you saw Andraste.”

 

Tears cling to her lashes and she wipes them away with the back of her hands, nodding. The smile is still there, an unnerving sight.

 

“Yes, I was visited by Our Lady. She was beautiful. Young and old and vibrant and filled with power and certainty. She burned with justice and a thirst for vengeance on Maferath and the Tevinter Imperium and told me I was chosen to bear the soul of her Champion.”

 

Meredith pauses, crying quietly to herself in apparent bliss over her dramatic spiritual revelation.

 

Andraste’s Champion, which would be _moi_? Yeah right, and the Evanuris threw Solas a birthday party, went out for a hunt to kill the remaining two Archdemons, danced the kumbaya with Imshael and the Darkspawn, and all was well in the world.

 

Besides, where was _my_ choice in all this? What happened to (insert dramatic deep echoing tone) ‘A soul cannot be forced on the unwilling’?

 

“And then?” I ask. Jeez, broken record much? At least it’s warranted. Making Meredith talk is like pulling teeth.

 

She shrugs. “She became a dragon and brought me deep underground.”

 

Uh oh. That’s oddly specific.

 

“ _And then_?” Bitch please, can’t you just monologue already?

 

“She brought me to another dragon, a huge one that was sleeping, and told me to lay my hand upon it and accept it’s soul.”

 

Wah?

 

“The Maker gifted me with immunity to the Taint, she said, and I would save the poor creature from its wretched existence. So I did as she asked. Then she took my face into her hands and told me she had yet another gift for me. A piece of her divine soul. I was so happy.”

 

Ugh, here come the waterworks again. I roll my eyes as Meredith cries _again_. Damn woman, stop crying and tell me how to get the fuck out of here so I can throw myself off a cliff, because apparently I am _Mythal_. I’m probably under some sort of geas.

 

I’m also an _Archdemon_.

 

Life suddenly became a lot more interesting and complicated at the same time. Thanks, bitch.

 

“I take it things didn’t go well?” I ask dryly. Meredith scoffs and shakes her head.

 

“I was weak. My emotions made me weak. They tore and tore at me until there was nothing left.”

 

YMMV I guess, unless I’m talking to myself.

 

“And _then_ ” I grind out, impatient.

 

“They destroyed each other,” Meredith says with a shrug. “And Andraste was left with nothing. Until she chose her Champion. Which would be you. I struggle to see what she saw in you.”

 

“You and me both, girl.”

 

Point one: Stay away from Flemeth.

 

Point two: Stay away from Grey Wardens and Darkspawn.

 

Point three: Do not tell Dalish elves part of me is one of their _Creator gods_.

 

Point four: Do not tell Grey Wardens part of me is one of their _Archdemons_.

 

Point five: Get Morrigan the fuck to Kirkwall and become friends with her son.

 

Point six: Stay calm stay calm AAAAAAAAAAH STAY CALM DON’T PANIC WAAAAAAAAAAAAH I’M GONNA DIE.

 

I look up at Meredith and blink.

 

“Say, does that mean I can turn into a dragon?”

 

Meredith snorts. “First, you have to escape and give Karras what he deserves. He’s the one who intercepted you when you returned with Ser Leon. You were pathetically easy to overwhelm, I must add.”

 

Ser Leon. Young Templar. Ha, his name explains _a lot_. He’s pseudo-immortal.

 

Don’t think too hard on that one, I won’t either.

 

And Karras? He’s going down.

 


	9. Retaliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a mistake. As poll option in the last chapter, I gave you the "Cullen ran away from Neria/Solona because he would have done things without her consent if he'd stayed." believing this is what Sheryl Chee (Origins' writer for Cullen) said. Friends quickly alerted me this is NOT the correct wording. What Sheryl Chee actually said is this: (source: https://fextralife.com/forums/p4677723/why-is-cullen-in-all-three-games/  
> note the original source is http://forum.bioware.com/topic/44857-character-trends-on-fan-fictionnet/?bioware=1  
> which unfortunately leads to a "The BioWare Forum is now offline" page) 
> 
> [S.C.]: "I'd say he starts out tragically oppressed with some tendencies towards creepy stalker (I think you'd have to be, to be a templar). He ends up, I believe, completely broken mentally and emotionally and hates both himself and the femMagePC. I think nothing, not even love, can redeem him. He's too far gone. Of course, that's not canon, it's just my take on it, and I revel in the angst and the pain."  
> [Unknown commentator 1]: "Good lord, that's beautiful and tragic. lol. Angst and pain = = good romance."  
> [Cut Comment by unknown commentator 2]  
> [S.C.]: "Yes, there's nothing romantic about the scenario in my mind. I imagine it would be very quick, very violent, and only undertaken as a way to get her out of his system."
> 
> I apologize for the inapproperiate wording in my poll. I thought hard about whether I should remove this part of the chapter, and decided to keep it as it is for one reason:
> 
> The situation I painted in my fanfic leaves the question of: "Does having the urge to do a bad thing make you a bad person? Do you have a choice in what you feel (or do not feel) for/to someone else? Does the decision to NOT do one bad thing, right another wrong thing you did?" to mull over. Personally, I think this question is interesting to explore further.

[**Does Hawke flit from romance to romance? RESULTS** ](https://i.imgur.com/eRhlYkl.png)

[ **Who is Hawke’s (first) romance? RESULTS** ](https://i.imgur.com/miq6V9i.png)

[ **Cullen wants to talk to Merethilda in private. Why? RESULTS** ](https://i.imgur.com/rUqkx6Z.png)

[ **Samson re-joins the Order. What did he do before to stay alive? RESULTS** ](https://i.imgur.com/GtLAD3S.png)

[ **Who kills Karras? RESULTS** ](https://i.imgur.com/ipccv1l.png)

[ **What is Merethilda’s specialization (besides Templar)? RESULTS** ](https://i.imgur.com/S2qKXkG.png)

* * *

 

**(Unspecified time)**

 

Okay, think. What do I know and what do I have at my disposal?

 

I'm an Old God. Unless I turn into a dragon and eat Karras for lunch when he shows up, it does me a fat lot of good. I'm ¼ part Mythal, if I squint. Unless the rest of Mythal swoops in deus ex machina style, it’s no use.

 

I'm chained up. If I free my legs, I can use the chains to strangle Karras. If he has keys on him. If he doesn't, I'll just set myself up to starve. On the other hand, the Mage Underground leads through the dungeons. So maybe all I have to do is wait.

 

“Really? ‘Let's do nothing and hope for the best’ is your plan?” Meredith asks, arching her eyebrows. She leans against the wall, hands crossed over her chest, looking down at me. I shrug and twist my chains left and right, pull them taut, wrap them around my own neck and pull, coughing. Meredith straightens in alarm.

 

“‘'Kill thyself’ isn't in the Chant of Light,” she says. Uh, the fuck do I care about the Chant? I roll my eyes, pull my legs together, and limbo-drop my shoulders to the ground, arching my back and straining my sides. I press against the floor with my feet. The chains are taut.

 

“What are you doing?” Meredith asks, tilting her head to the side. I chuckle.

 

“Giving myself one hell of a degloving injury.”

 

1.

 

2.

 

3.

 

I push myself into an explosive backwards roll.

 

My ankles jar, the chains rattle and strain to their limits. The manacles scrape over my skin, blood slickening them. It's just the lubricant they need, and with white-hot agony, my feet slip out of their bindings and I roll into the bars of the cell. With my back, thank God.

 

My chest heaves with quick breaths. My left leg lays flat on the ground, my ankle a bleeding, shiny mess. My other leg is stretched out in front of me, my flayed heel spasming each time it touches the ground. My toes twitch beyond my control.

 

“Well done, you're free. In a cell. Bleeding out. And you won't walk again unless you find a healer, and soon.” Thanks Meredith, for the useless narrative. I reach over and touch my heel.

 

**(Unspecified time)**

 

“Good idea,” Meredith drawls. “You passed out. And at this rate you're going to drown in your own blood.”

 

I’m on my side, hands clutched against my chest, tongue between my teeth. My head throbs, my feet throb, everything throbs. The floor is wet and lukewarm from reddish black liquid. It seeps into the cracks in a slow trickle. I sit up and blink at Meredith, who's form shudders, edges misting.

 

“You’re flickering. That’s not good, is it?” I ask, rubbing the cramped hamstring in my right leg. Meredith rolls her eyes and scoffs.

 

“I'll give you half an hour, and that's generous.”

 

Back to work, then. The simplest way would be to loop my chains through the eye on the wall and pull until my hands are freed. But I can't take another degloving, and I can barely walk as it is. Still don't have a key, either. I might be able to shove through two bars, with the weight I’ve lost.

 

“Pity you don't have any lyrium,” Meredith says, narrowing her eyes with her hands on her hips. My eyes snap back to her and I shriek in frustration, throwing my hands up in a Holy Smite. The manacles click and fall off.

 

Her gaping mouth and wide opened eyes are worth it. I laugh, rubbing my wrists.

 

“Andraste's Champion, remember? And mention stuff like this before I hurt myself, bitch please.”

 

She doesn't need to know she (and Mythal) made me a Seeker. I shuffle toward the wall on my hands and knees, gritting my teeth and keeping my feet off the floor. The cold air prickles and makes them twitch. At least the blood slowed to a trickle.

 

Which isn't any better, to be honest. Feet wounds bleed a lot if you don't apply a tourniquet beforehand.

 

My nails scratch at the wall, catching and breaking on mortar and stone. Under Meredith's watchful glare, I almost wrench my shoulders out of their sockets when I pull myself up.

 

The second my feet touch the ground, I drop like a ragdoll, crying out. I whimper and shudder, clawing at the ground. Fuck, I can't do this, it hurts too much. I'll just die here in the dark, alone.

 

“Get up and walk.”

 

Almost alone.

 

I peer up at Meredith’ ethereal form through greasy hair.

 

“Easy for you to say.”

 

With a huff, she crosses her ankles and intertwines her fingers.

 

“The Dalish walked for miles on their bare feet. If they can do it, so can you.”

 

I snort. “Sorry to kill your encouragement, but the Dalish had skin on their feet. And, I don't know, thirty of them made it. Most of them made it in shrouds. So shut up and let me wallow in self-pity.”

 

They also had something to look forward to: a land of their own. All I have to look forward to is Karras coming back to rape me, and this time I'm lucid.

 

"Did he give me something?" I ask Meredith, rubbing my wrists. She laughs.

 

"Adder's Kiss," she says with a shrug. "Slows everything down and makes you feel nice and dreamy."

 

I don't like the gleam in her eyes that says she's used it herself. I don't want to know who she used it on either.

 

Okay, let's take a step back. A mental step. To pick the lock, or throw myself against the door, I’ll have to walk. I can crawl if I have to, but it'll be slow going. Dying two steps from the door to civilization would be a shitty death.

 

My feet need to stop hurting, but how?

 

"Got anything in this cell?" I ask, looking around. Walls, a floor, a glowstone on a shelf in the upper left corner - the blue orb, I guess - but nothing else. Not even a platter I can slam against the door. Great. Meredith doesn't reply either, just watches me with a satisfied smile. Is she waiting for me to drop dead? She realizes she'll be a goner too, yeah?

 

Your smites are cold, Anders said. Cold anesthetizes to a degree. I move to sit cross-legged and clap my feet together. I sway from pain. Spots dance across my vision and I let out a whining groan. My hand flails through Meredith and her form disperses into mist and doesn’t reshape itself. I grope around behind me and cling to the bars. Alone.

 

Shaking my head, I slump forward and reach for my left foot, holding my hands a few inches away from my flesh. Okay, just a little smite. A broad one, so it covers everything in one go. Gently. I bend my hands, tucking my thumbs against my index fingers. My skin glows in a white mist that stretches towards the arch of my foot.

 

"Fuck!" It hurts at first, stinging and burning and making my hands shake and my eyes tear up. But the pain fades and dulls the rest into a soft, echoing threat. It won't last forever, maybe not even for half an hour, but it should be enough to walk. I need to get out of this damned cell.

 

Maybe... I turn around, clinging to the cold bars. Narrowing my eyes, I scrutinize the lock. Just a standard keyhole for thick Thedosian keys. Maybe it’s the same as the one on the manacles and I can smite it, too?

 

The first step is easy enough, though I still wince at the dull pain. The second step is even easier, and a third one isn't necessary because I can snatch the manacles off the floor. I turn them over in my fingers, drawing my fingers over the smooth surface until I find the keyhole. Bingo, they're identical. As far as I can tell, anyway.

 

Mentally crossing my fingers, I trip back toward the cell door and just Energize the lock by slapping on it with the flat of my hand. Air presses against my palm when the energy leaves my skin and the lock glows a bright white. With a click and unholy creaking, the door swings open.

 

Blood drips as I take my first step over the threshold. The ground is dusty and dirty. Great. At this rate I'll die from infection. Or AIDS. Lovely. Anders is going to have a new regular in his Clinic. I'm not taking any more chances with my health, Old God soul or no Old God soul.

 

Can I get a refund on Meredith and order Mythal as a replacement for a mental buddy, please. I think I'll go cliff diving if she returns. She's going to nag, because why would she agree with the changes I'm going to make? Unless I manage to change her mind, but to what end? She's dead. Kind of. She said so herself.

 

I stagger. My cell is in the middle of the dungeons, so I stagger to the left and lean my weight against the wall. My feet throb. My head throbs. I slip through lukewarm blood and hit my head against rough stones. Hunching forward, I retch and retch while my stomach constricts and tries to squeeze everything out. I don’t remember being taken by Karras. I don’t remember eating, or drinking. How long have I been gone?

 

Come on, Grethilda. One more step. For your own good. One more, for revenge on the filth calling himself a Templar. One more, for Elsa and Niana, who need you to keep them safe. Left foot forward, for Cullen, who deserves his redemption. Right foot forward, for Orsino, who needs to be saved from himself. Another one, for Anders, because I promised to wrangle cats with him and I keep my promises. Yet another one, for Leandra, who needs to be saved from Quentin. Pick up that foot and put it down again, for Merrill, because Hawke is definitely going to say the wrong thing and get the entire Sabrae Clan killed. Pick up the other foot, for Isabela, because she deserves her ship.

 

My vision blurs. Light fades the further I go. I should've taken the glowstone, but there's no point in going back now. My right foot grazes the floor. For Fenris, who deserves his revenge on Danarius. Left foot forward, for Variana, who needs to be saved from her own brother. Right foot up, for Alistair, who'll hear the fake Calling if I don't make sure Corypheus stays locked up.

 

I lean my head against the wall and whimper to myself. Five seconds. I'm giving myself five seconds to be pathetic and useless and helpless, and then I'm going to move again. I can't stay here. It's too cold, I'm bleeding, and I need a healer. I also need food and might have a concussion. Adder's Kiss isn't orange juice either, I’ll need an antidote for that as well.

 

Left foot up. For Samson. Even if he doesn't come back, I still have to make sure he doesn't end up dead or worse. Right foot, for Quentin, because he's just a guy who lost his wife and lives in Kirkwall and maybe the thin Veil just drove him insane with grief... you never know.

 

My hands shake. My legs shake. Spots and fireworks shoot across my vision. I slide down the wall, rub my eyes and pull myself forward with my hands. First pull, Elissa Cousland. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. Second pull, for Neria Surana. I don't know what happened to you, maybe you're alive, maybe not. Third pull, for Solona Amell. I hope you're alive, but I can't be sure. Fourth pull, for Oren and Fergus's wife. I forgot your name. I'm sorry. Fifth pull, for... for... for Alrik, because I can hardly blame you for doing what you were programmed to do, can I?

 

I laugh to myself. Really? I left him in the Fade and now I'm using him as motivation to stay alive? How the mighty have fallen. Not that I was mighty to begin with. I was more delusions of grandeur than anything else. And look where I ended up. Crawling through the dust in Kirkwall's dungeons. Nice.

 

Sixth pull, the door is still too far away to reach from here. For Leliana, who needs someone to keep her balanced between softened and hardened. Seventh pull for Justinia, because you undid my Warden's hard work by hardening her, you old crone. The eight pull is for Morrigan, because you had to live with an old crone who was called the All-mother, the Protector, and what did she protect you from? Only from trust and emotional connections. The ninth pull forward is for Mythal, because you're a selfish power-hungry bitch and I'm buying more and more into the theory you're the real antagonist of Dragon Age, instead of the Dread Wolf.

 

The tenth pull, that has me three pulls away from the door, is dedicated to Solas. I want to talk to him, tell him about Moth, tell him what it was like to be in the Fade without being taunted by the Nightmare demon. I want to ask him if me being an Archdemon means there's only one sleeping Archdemon left and what it means for the world.

 

Eleven. For Varric. I swear you'll get the full story. Twelve. Twelve. For who is my twelfth pull? Fuck this, my twelfth pull is for Meredith Stannard, because why the hell not. The thirteenth pull, the one where the tips of my fingers touch stone, is for whichever Old God lives inside my head. My soul. Whatever. I pull myself up. Maybe it's Razikale, there are enough theories about it being female. It'd fit nicely with Mythal. Razikale is the Old God of Mystery, I believe. Lusascan or whatever it was belongs to the Night.

 

Maybe the Grey Wardens got their names wrong, and I'm Toth, the Old God of Death. It’d be fitting. I'm kind of dead, right? Grethilda died, Meredith died, Mythal died.

 

Am I even still alive if I died? Who did I become and who will I be in the future? Will I even recognize myself a year from now?

 

My hands slide over the sleek surface in search of the lock, seams, anything. Come on, come on. My hands find a small dent. The lock? I slam my fist against it and my energy fizzles out into nothingness. Fuck, fuck. Do I need a mage to unlock it from the inside?

 

I lean my forehead against the door and bite back a sob. But what's the point in fighting my tears? I'm going to die here, three inches away from help. I've paid off the guard in front of the repository enough times to realize where he is: the Hanged Man, while I'm here, bleeding out in the dark.

 

I slap my hand against the door half-heartedly, again and again. The last time, I use the mouse of my hand and slam it hard enough to make the hinges rattle. A hollow click, and the door creaks beneath my weight. Near delusional from relief and pain, I throw myself against the door. For myself, whoever the fuck I am now. For the girl who gets lost in her local supermarket. For the girl who got drunk and almost begged Isabela to fuck her on Merrill's table. For the girl who played Mages and Templars with Anders and laughed for the first time in days.

 

The door creaks and catches against something. Probably rusted from age. My shoulder burns when I throw myself against it one more time, stubbing my toe and almost losing consciousness again. The door gives way and I collapse on the floor, crying from relief. Free. I'm free. I let out a hysterical laugh and kiss the floor. I don’t care how it looks. I want to drink in the fresh air, go to sleep, and wake up on day one again.

 

"Maker's breath! Knight-Commander Meredith?!"

 

I can barely lift my head to make eye contact with my rescuer, and my shoulders shake. It's Alistair. Alistair, who wouldn't be here if I hadn't decided to fix his exile. Who wouldn't be here if Mahariel hadn't recruited Loghain.

 

Thank you, Mahariel, for recruiting Loghain and not marrying Alistair off to Anora.

 

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

 

**(Unspecified time)**

 

I crawled out just before dawn. Alistair immediately gave me his coat, and upon seeing the state my feet were in (he turned around and retched first), put his hand between my shoulderblades and his arm behind my knees and lifted me off the floor. He carried me to Orsino's office. I kept my face buried in Alistair's neck, not that it'd keep Karras from recognizing me if we passed him, but I wasn't going to look forward with my chin up, either. I didn't look over Alistair’s shoulder to see if we left a trail of blood and I didn't ask, either. Alistair just trembled, too shocked to ask questions.

 

I'm pretty sure Orsino took one look at my feet and did something behind his back, because the pain vanished. I cried so hard I almost choked on my own saliva. A long series of questions followed..

 

Yes, I was sure it was Karras. Yes, I was sure he'd poisoned me. Yes, I'd been the one to bring Ser Leon back. No, I hadn't died in the skirmish with Alrik, and I hadn't been on the makeshift pyre either. Yes, I knew what had happened to Alrik.

 

Orsino had the decency to keep a neutral expression on his face when I described the gruesome murder (keeping out the part about the Fade), though I'm pretty sure he was filled with relief on the inside.

 

Yes, Ella was dead. Yes, Anders had been involved, but he hadn't hurt me (not intentionally), he'd helped me.

 

"Oh God please tell me he's safe," I choke out, staring at both of them with wide eyes. Orsino chuckles and blows out a deep breath.

 

"He's hiding in my room in the Hanged Man," Alistair says, smirking, from his place behind Orsino’s chair.

 

"The entire tavern heard me slander the Grey Wardens. They'll never look for him in my room." He shrugs.

 

"Thank the Maker," I whisper, pulling Alistair's cloak tighter around me.

 

"And thank you for being here. Welcome back to the Order, I guess." I hold out my hand and he shakes it, blinking with flushed cheeks. Oh, adorable goofball Alistair. I'm going to cry again. You'll never know, but we 'met' when I was in a bad place and your goofy jokes and the rose you gave my Cousland made me feel appreciated. Thank you for that.

 

"Yes, well, this isn't what I had in mind when I signed up," he says with a chuckle, his eyes darting from me to Orsino. Orsino chuckles and I just shake my head, rubbing the bandages on my wrists. I swear Orsino did something with creation magic, spirit magic and probably blood magic too, to make the skin on my ankles and heel regrow. It was… an unpleasant experience. It felt like my feet had been dumped in ice water, then boiling water, acid, and had a colony of ants crawling beneath the the remaining layer of skin.

 

Both of them were so gentle when they rubbed elfroot potion into my skin and wrapped them up in bandages.

 

"Me neither," I say dryly, and Alistair starts. He probably didn't mean to say that out loud. I shake my head and close my eyes, leaning my head against the back of the chair.

 

“All right, I’m no Antivan Crow, but I did sneak into a dungeon once,” Alistairs says, breaking the silence. Eh. He lost me there.

 

Orsino raises his eyebrows. “You snuck into a dungeon? Aren’t you supposed to sneak ou-”

 

Alistair waves it away.

 

“I’ll get Anders here. I just need a Mabari and a guard uniform…”

 

As amusing as it would be to see Anders pretending to like dogs, I have to interrupt.

 

“How about just dragging him here in irons?”

 

Alistair blushes and chuckles. “Yes. Well. That might be a better idea. Ahem. I’ll be back. With Anders. Tied up. Now why does that sound dirty?”

 

I roll my eyes and Orsino chuckles. With an awkward wave, Alistair leaves and closes the door behind him.

 

I turn back to Orsino and ask: “How long?”

 

Orsino’s breath escapes him slowly.

 

“It's he fourth day of Cloudreach. You were gone for three weeks. We've looked, but... he probably kept moving you and...”

 

I don't catch the rest of what he says. I got here on the 15th of Drakonis. Three weeks ago. And I was only conscious for the first four days. I bury my head in my hands and groan, which turns into a whimper, which turns into a sob.

 

Three weeks in which I could’ve done a shitload to make Kirkwall a better place. Wasted. Because of Karras.

 

“As soon as I can walk and hold a sword, I’m killing that scumbag.”

 

Orsino pales. “Ah, yes… about that… we were unsure what to do with him and… Thrask insisted we leave him...”

 

I look up and blink. “You lost me. What? You left who where?”

 

His hands tremble before he hides them behind his back.

 

“It seems someone else had their own ideas about him… It’s best if we show you after Alistair returns with Anders. If Anders doesn’t light the entire thing on-”

 

He cuts himself off and I narrow my eyes at him.

 

“Show me.”

 

Orsino presses his lips together and I push myself up, out of my seat.

 

“Now.” I say through clenched teeth, my eyes burning. Orsino inclines his head and strides to the other end of his office, opening the door. I wince when I take my first step despite the elfroot salves and the bandages. Orsino offers me his arm, but I shake my head and put my arm over his shoulders, leaning most of my weight on him.

 

It’s not like anyone will recognize me in this state, even though they got me water to wash up. I’m skin and bones (damn it, I must’ve lost all of Meredith’s muscles. It’s an excuse to start training at the bottom, but damn it.) and my hair is brittle and thin. Hardly the thick locks she used to have.

 

“I’m going to cut my hair,” I mutter to myself. Orsino sighs. I look at him through my lashes.

 

“You disapprove?”

 

He presses his lips together and frowns.

 

“It might be necessary to help it recover. But I… liked… your hair.”

 

No. Just no. Please no. God no. I can’t deal right now. Maybe not ever. My fingers itch to scratch and shove and pommel at Orsino even though I know he’s not going to hurt me. There’s an urge my chest to run away, to disappear, slowly making my breath go faster. I struggle to keep it under control.

 

“Yeah. No worries, it’ll grow back.”

 

He doesn’t reply.

 

**(Unspecified time)**

 

In the center of the Gallows’ courtyard stands a pyre. Built meticulously out of logs, shavings and kindling, it might be stable enough to be a permanent structure. One thick branch serves as the sake. At the pyre’s foot lay neat piles of glistening kindle, topped with wood shavings. The second I lay my eyes on it, my heart beats hard against my constricted throat. My hands become clammy with sweat. The dawning spring sun casts its eerie light on Karras, who’s tied to the stake, stark naked if not for the bleeding wounds on his body.

 

In jagged, rough cuts on his lower belly, the blood reads: ‘Rapist’.

 

Above his navel: ‘I can, and I will’.

 

On his chest: ‘Beg and I’ll be gentle.’

 

Fuck.

 

And on his forehead…

 

“Oh God,” I whisper, clutching at Orsino’s shoulder as we come closer.

 

Karras’s body is covered with sweat, no doubt stinging in his wounds. His eyes dart beneath his eyelids and his throat bobs up and down. His tongue darts out between his cracked lips to wet them, before he coughs, straining against the ropes that bind him. His head hangs to the side, his neck bent in an uncomfortable angle. My eyes are wide and my legs are frozen.

 

Karras forces his eyes open and turns his head in my direction, blinking at me. It’s the sunburst, standing out in red on his pale sweaty forehead. But not from a brand. This one was carved in great detail. He’s not Tranquil. Karras blinks at me with trembling eyelids and his eyes fall closed again.

 

“We think whoever did this gave him something,” Orsino says.

 

Adder’s Kiss, probably. From his own stash?

 

I clear my throat. “Who… who... ”

 

Orsino shifts his weight on his feet and rearranges my arm on his shoulder. He frowns.

 

“No-one heard or saw anything. No Templars, no mages, and the Tranquil didn’t see anything either. It’s like whoever did this moved unseen and unheard, as if they were invisible. He-” he jerks his chin at Karras.

 

“- Is too incoherent to tell us anything other than ‘They weren’t afraid, they weren’t afraid.’ I think he might be in shock.”

 

‘They weren’t afraid.’ Everyone is afraid of Karras. No mage would dare do this, lest all of them face the consequences. Should I ask Orsino if Karras has made enemies beyond mages or Templars? I know Thrask doesn’t like him, but I doubt he’d go this far.

 

“Is that…” I begin, staring at a torch, standing silent vigil next to the pyre.

 

“Yes. Whoever did this left it ready and waiting,” Orsino says grimly.

 

Oh shit. Oh shit. Sure, I can kill a man out of self-defense. I killed Alrik out of justice for Ella. But can I kill a man who is defenseless and unaware of what is going on around him? My stomach sinks and my hands tremble. I blink and swallow several times.

 

“‘I can, and I will,’” I whisper. Familiar words.

 

Whether intended or not, they serve as reassurance, the last push, a final affirmation. Yes, I can kill a defenseless man who’s unaware of what is going on.

 

Karras was programmed to abuse the mages.

 

He was never programmed to do it to me.

 

I can, and I will.

 

With short strides, supported by Orsino, I take the torch in hand. The courtyard hushes.

 

“Light it?” I ask Orsino, who blinks and then obliges, holding his hands on either side of the torch and frowning in concentration. Heat, fire and smoke drift up as sparks fly and the fire starts, rumbling on the torch. I turn around and face the courtyard, wetting my lips. I hold up the torch.

 

I don’t do elaborate speeches, but I’ll have to say something.

 

“This man…” I begin. Wait. What if the people don’t recognize me with bandaged feet and wrists and in Alistair’s cloak, with greasy hair and sunken cheeks?

 

“My name is Meredith Stannard, Knight-Commander of the Gallows,” I start again, raising my voice. As if by magic, the soft spring breeze carries my words far and high. Cold blooms underneath my feet and eases the remaining pain, warmth fills my belly and shoulderblades. Something tickles the back of my neck. Comforting.

 

I turn to Karras and gesture at him with the torch. “This man has been accused of rape. If any of you challenge this, speak. Or forever hold your peace.”

 

Speak now, or never mention what you know after what is done is done.

 

It's easier to say nothing than to confirm, after all. Easier to stand by and watch someone else end a life.

 

My eyes drift over the assembled mages. Five of them, huddled together near a cart. Grace glares at Karras with an intensity that could light the pyre all on it's own. Alain is pale and trembles but keeps his lips pressed together with determination.

 

Thrask stands beneath a walkway, watching, his expression unreadable. Sebastian, clad in light Templar armor with his bow hanging on his back, watches with wide eyes. His face is ashen and his hands twitch. I don't think Sebastian is one for violent deaths.

 

“Well, are you going to do it or shall I?” Anders asks. My eyes snap to him and Alistair, who make their way toward us. Despite Alistair’s words, Anders isn’t tied up. No-one makes a move to arrest him.

 

Alistair looks ill, but Anders… his eyes are feverish, focused on Karras. There's a smile bordering on malicious pleasure on his face. He would do anything for the honour to hurl a fireball into that pyre.

 

I drop the torch right in front of the pyre. The flames waver before their tongues flick against stray kindle. Sparks fly and catch, and burning embers drift from branch to branch, adding fuel to a growing fire.

 

For a few minutes we just stand and watch. Watch, as the flames reach Karras's feet and he spasms and twitches. Fire lashes at his ankles and he jerks at his bindings. He chafes his wrists and ankles on the burning ropes and I chuckle. I clamp my hand over my mouth right away. Ander lets out a harsh, low laugh and smirks, his face lit by the rising flames.

 

Karras screams and flails, seized by panic. The flames rise higher and higher, but don't cast any smoke to the skies. It seems no mage allows him a soft death before the flames devour him.

 

Maybe I should feel empty and hollow, or regretful even. But I don't. I watch as the flames lick at Karras's sideburns (how ironic) and even allow myself one little smile when his scream crescendos into a shrill shriek of agony. The rumbling flames drown out the sound. They will leave nothing but a burning carcass made from wood and charred bones.

 

I nod at Anders, who’s amber eyes burn with swirls of blue. He inclines his head. Justice approves, I assume.

 

Orsino and Alistair help me inside long before the pyre burns out.

 

In my country, rapists get a sentence of years in prison. There is no system where civilians are called to form a jury. The average Joe can watch a public case, but that’s it. Sometimes victims are allowed to address the judge and the defendant. I liked to think I’d be compassionate enough to ask for rehabilitation.

 

I was wrong. Revenge tastes _sweet_.

 

**Day 21 (4th of Cloudreach) 06:00 AM  
**

Orsino and Alistair accompany me to my office first, to pick up a few books and scrolls and other stuff. Alistair opens the door and stops dead in his tracks. I smack against him and reel back, stepping on Orsino’s bare toes. He curses and steadies me.

 

“Andraste’s dirty smalls,” Alistair whispers, pressing himself against the wall and inching his way inside. Orsino lays his hands on my shoulders to keep me back and slips past me, skidding to a stop just inside the doorway.

 

“Oh. Oh,” he says, wringing his hands together, eyes wide.

 

“What? Guys, what the fuck?” I ask, shoving Orsino inside so I can follow them and see for myself what has them so shaken.

 

“Ha, is this what you threaten annoying nobles with? Because if so, I'm getting one for my own office,” Alistair quips.

 

“You don't have an office,” Orsino says dryly. Alistair chuckles.

 

“Saves me from beheading myself on accident trying to mount it on the wall, then.”

 

I pass Orsino and come to a halt. On the wall behind my desk hangs a framed hellebarde, silverite blade freshly oiled and gleaming in the morning sun. The dragonbone hilt looks newly sanded and varnished. One hell of a weapon.

 

“Meredith,” Elsa says by way of greeting, tapping papers into a neat stack against the desk.

 

“Niana and I thought you'd like our present.”

 

She's not talking about the hellebarde, is she?

 

“It’s certainly approved.”

 

Orsino's frown smooths out and his eyes widen at my comment. Elsa nods and slides out of the chair, making her way around the desk. Two sheaths on her hips sway with the motions. I raise my eyebrows.

 

She pulls me into a hug and I cling to her, probably tightly enough to hurt. Her hair smells like the mint oil I used on the end of my first day in Kirkwall and my shoulders shake.

 

“It's all right, he can't hurt you anymore. You're safe with me. I made sure of that. Anyone who wants to harm you will have to go through me and Niana, first, and we aren't afraid.”

 

‘They weren't afraid, they weren't afraid.’

 

“Thank you,” I sob into her shoulder. “Thank you.”

 

“You're welcome,” she says, and I swear it sounds like she's smiling.

 

“I'll ask Anders to visit you later. You deserve a chance to rest, first,” Orsino says after clearing his throat.

 

I release Elsa and look at him and Alistair over my shoulder.

 

“We all need rest, I believe.”

 

Just before the door closes and shuts out their voices, Alistair's whispered question drifts into the room.

 

“... Tranquil, then why…”

 

I don't catch Orsino's reply, just his troubled tone.

 

“All right,” Elsa says, clapping her hands together. I start and clutch at my chest, breathing rapidly with wide eyes. She grimaces. Something about her facial expressions is off, as if she's working extra hard on them. Like an actress who believes every single muscle in her face should convey emotion without any kind of subtlety.

 

“Sorry, I'll be more careful. Anyway, I was going to say I'll get Niana and we'll make you feel better in no-time.”

 

I raise my eyebrows and gesture at myself, giving her an incredulous sideways glance.

 

She sighs and gives me a shrug.

 

“At the very least, we can wash your hair and see if any of it is worth saving. My guess is ‘no’.”

 

Gee, thanks.

**Day 21 (4th of Cloudreach) 15:00 PM**

True to her words, Elsa and Niana do make me feel better, if only because they don't shave me bald. Instead they spend a few minutes debating which hairstyle and cuts will make my cheeks look less gaunt. Watching two Tranquil have an ‘argument’ in the middle of my bathroom with stilted gestures and handwaves is uncanny, but nonetheless distracts me from everything else.

 

In the end I cut the tie and go for ‘choppy chique’, which Niana declares an optimistic euphemism for ‘coupe de disaster’. But I am a disaster.

 

I don't grieve over the brittle locks that fall to the ground. I just close my eyes. I don't want to see my hollow eyes and pale, paper thin skin or my jutting cheekbones. I do drag my hands through my hair get a feel of the look.

 

Oh dear. It is a coupe de disaster. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they made the uneven choppy cuts on the back of my head on purpose. Two asymmetrical locks fall over my ears, there’s a chunk of hair missing above the right end of my left eyebrow, and a stray lock sticks up to the left while the rest of my hair sort of lays in disarray to the right. ‘Layers’ might be a too optimistic way of putting it.

 

Both of them look at me. I clear my throat.

 

“It’s… uhm… We’ll make it work, definitely. Yeah.”

 

And that’s all to be said about it.

 

Magic can only repair so much damage and malnutrition isn't one of them. Nor can it give me my original muscle mass back. Blood magic would've done it, but just the thought of trying to convince Anders was exhausting. So I didn't suggest it.

 

They get me watery soup with fresh bread and I scarf it down, only to deposit it on my desk in un unrecognizable mess a few minutes later. The smell makes me dry heave and bile in the back of my throat makes my eyes water. My head hurts, too.

 

Half an hour later I try again, straining my self-restraint to it's absolute limit to pace myself this time. It stays down. Thank God.

 

Someone outside knocks twice, and Elsa looks up and says: “No-one's in.”

 

Niana rolls her eyes. “I see Arainai has taught you deceit.”

 

I roll my eyes and gesture at them to cut it out. “Ignore them, Anders. You can come in.”

 

The door opens and reveals Cullen, unmoving in the doorway. His eyelids droop, the corners of his lips are turned downward, his eyes… they look straight through me, as if they process nothing. His eyebrows are pulled together, but more like they're dragged down. His hands, he… his fingers twitch, he's driving the nail of his right thumb into the fingerbone of his left thumb, the other nails of his left hand digging into flesh.

 

Something heavy falls through me, gravity falls away for a second, my heart squeezes and pounds against my ribs, my throat constricts.

 

But I'm not afraid of him, I'm afraid for him.

 

I clear my throat. “Oh. Come in Co-”

 

I catch myself at the last second. “Ah, just. Just come in. You can close the door if you want.”

 

He does so with slumped shoulders and eyes cast downward, his head hanging. I close my eyes for a second and force back tears. Damn man, stop feeling guilty already, there was nothing you could've done anyway.

 

“Sit down,” I say, gesturing at the chair on the other end of my desk. He drops into the seat and hunches forward, hands covering his face, fingers rubbing his skin. He lets out a massive sigh and shakes his head. I swallow.

 

Oh god. He was raped too.

 

“Can you guys leave us alone for a minute?” I ask. Niana gets up to leave, but Elsa stays rooted to her spot and blinks at me, laying her hands on the sheaths on her hips. I roll my eyes and mouth ‘Go’ at her, and they both comply and leave.

 

I reach forward and lay my hand on the desk, palm up in an invitation to take it.

 

“Cullen-”

He cuts me off, lifting his head and meeting my eyes, steel in his voice. “I need to tell you something. Now isn't the right time, but it's also the only time I can… if I wait any longer it'll be… Maker, it's bad. It's really bad.”

 

Thump thump thump goes my heart. I blink, wet my lips and nod, clearing my throat.

 

“Okay,” I say. “You can tell me anything. I'll help if I can. And if I can't, I’ll help anyway,” I add with a chuckle.

 

Cullen scoffs and shakes his head. “You say that now. After, though…”

 

He takes a deep breath, slides his fingers through mine and squares his shoulder.

 

“I killed three apprentices in Kinloch Hold, and even more apostates after I ran. I didn't… I never found out their names or if they had families and I didn't even care enough to keep count of how many I…”

 

My mouth slackens, my eyes widen and I squeeze his hand as tightly as he squeezes mine. Fuck fuck fuck. God-forsaken fucking shithole.

 

“I… I don't know what to…” He doesn't let me finish, holding up his other hand, his eyes on our intertwined hands. He clears his throat, but even so his voice remains hoarse.

 

“It gets worse.”

 

What can be worse than killing three apprentices and countless apostates?

 

Oh god please don’t tell me you’re lusting after Orsino’s dog. Not that Orsino has a dog, but y’know.

 

“In Kinloch, there was this girl. Her name was Solona. Solona Amell. She… I…”

 

He breathes out and drags his hand over his face.

 

“After her Harrowing - I stood watch at it. I was so proud of her for making it through. Of course she did, she was the best apprentice Kinloch has ever seen.”

 

He smiles a little, with closed eyes. Then he draws in a deep breath and holds it.

 

“After, I waited for her. To… S-she- She asked me if we could talk in private and I, I- Everything inside me ached to take her in my arms and to just- to just grab her and kiss her until she’d surrender and let me use her as I would, but…”

 

He takes another great breath, eyes closed, his brow smoothing out. He breathes out and looks at me.

 

“I didn't. Might’ve been the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

 

I pinch my bottom lip between my thumb and index finger. Cullen, oh Cullen. Why now? Why did you have to tell me this now? After Karras. I can’t wave this away. You won’t be satisfied with an ‘It wasn’t your fault, please put this behind you and move on.’

 

And I can’t explain why it wasn’t your fault without telling you why, and that’ll turn your life upside down. No-one finds out their life wasn’t their own, that their decisions were made by someone else, based on what storyline was most compelling, and is able to shrug it off and move on with their life.

 

I lay my head in my hands, over my eyes, and rub them up and down, breathing in and out.

 

“Cullen, if it was either one of those things… just the one thing, then I would’ve been lenient with you. I would’ve excused your actions. Maybe it wouldn’t have been the right decision to make, but I would’ve taken the consequences, if any arose. But now… those two things together…”

 

I shake my head and meet his eyes. “Do you believe you are a danger to the mages in this Circle, Cullen?”

 

His reply is a short, determined nod. He breaks eye-contact, pulls his hand out of mine and clasps them together, looking down at them. I lean back and sigh, closing my eyes.

 

“I’m going to take a few minutes to think this through, all right? And I’m going to get you a glass of water and a healing potion. No offense given the circumstances, but you look like you’ve got one hell of a headache.”

 

Cullen lets out a mirthless, hollow chuckle, rubbing his forehead. “I’ve stopped taking lyrium. I’m not doing so well.”

 

On my way to the water decanter on the windowsill, I roll my eyes upward, press my lips together and shake my head. My experiment with diminishing lyrium by a teaspoon failed, if only because I haven’t taken it for two weeks and didn’t notice a thing.

 

Wait.

 

I whirl around and blink.

 

“No matter what I decide will happen to you, Cullen, I’ll help you kick the lyrium.”

 

The left corner of my lip pulls up. “I might ask you to take actual poison as an experiment to alleviate withdrawal symptoms.”

 

He swallows, looking up at me for a second before looking down again.

 

“I’ll do whatever you ask of me,” he whispers.

 

I sigh and close my eyes. This is the face of defeat. A broken man who has just bared his soul to me and laid his life in my hands. And for what? For something he had no choice in.


	10. Ghost

**["Is Bethany Hawke Alive?" - RESULTS](https://i.imgur.com/bBEwcpm.jpg) **

**[Platonic date - RESULTS](https://i.imgur.com/HE9RQsP.png) **

**[Merethilda's trauma effect - RESULTS](https://i.imgur.com/dlx8YNb.png) **

**[Elthina friends/allies/enemies - RESULTS](https://i.imgur.com/ApBEKin.jpg) **

**[Recurring character(s) - RESULTS](https://i.imgur.com/yreOsZe.jpg) **

* * *

 

 

**Day 21 (4th of Cloudreach) 3:15 PM**

 

Healing potion in one hand, lyrium vial in the other and a glass of water pressed against my body with my elbow, I stop next to Cullen and slam them on the desk. Cullen starts. The corners of my lips pull up.

 

"Drink all of them, believe me, you don't want a headache for this." I gesture to the three vials. With a sigh, Cullen slumps. He keeps his eyes closed for a second before he uncorks the healing potion, knocking it back in one go. He sighs in relief and reaches for the lyrium vial. His hand hovers around the sleek vial, catching the afternoon sun in its iridescent blue depths. Lyrium blue. I lay my hand on his shoulder. Muscles tense up underneath my fingers and I clench my teeth together. My first impulse is to give him a shoulder massage because God knows tense shoulders can make it difficult to think clearly. My soul for relaxed trapeziums.

 

Anyway, with forlorn sad eyes, Cullen thumbs the cork off the vial and tilts his head back, tipping the Lyrium into his throat. Underneath my fingers, the muscle knots just... vanish. Poof, gone.

 

Maybe I should start taking lyrium again. I did say I'd give my soul for relaxed muscles.

 

I roll my eyes at myself and give Cullen's shoulder a squeeze. He lets out a slow breath, sets the empty vial back on the desk and lays his arms on the desk and his head on his arms.

 

"Oh Maker, my head. I don't think I should thank you for this, but... thank you." His voice is muffled. I give him another squeeze and just... his shoulder is warm and comforting and he's obviously a strong man. Strong enough to claw his way out of a mental breakdown. What I wouldn't have given for a role-model like Cullen back in my world.

 

I blink and shake my head. I don't want to think about that now. Smiling to myself, I round the desk and drop into my chair, planting my elbow on my desk. Leaning my chin on my hand, I drum the fingers of my other hand on the cherry wood.

 

What am I to do with you, Cullen? I wish I'd faceplanted into Thedas in Dragon Age 41 so this wasn't my responsibility. I'd be ostriching my head into a hole in the ground, quietly hoping everything would just go away.

 

When I was thirteen, my grandfather slipped on the ice on the pavement in front of his house and fell on his tailbone. His side of the family has unbelievably strong bones, so he didn't break anything, but the sprain still hurt. He went to the doctor's office, got sent to the hospital for a scan or an X-ray and... Came home with prostate cancer.

 

Not that he hadn't had it before falling and going to the hospital. Not that he heard it immediately. But from what I remember, it certainly felt that way. I was thirteen, and the only experience with death and illness I'd had were great-grandparents living on the other side of the country, who I saw once or twice a year and didn't really know beyond their names and familial relation to me.

 

For a while, maybe a year, everything was looking up. Pops went to the academic renowned hospital, first for chemotherapy and then for specifically placed radiation therapy. He had to wear a mask that limited his head movements to zilch, limited his breathing, and sit still for an hour. It must have been boring and yet at the same time he must've known it was the only thing left to alleviate the symptoms, because by then he'd received the prognosis of: ‘I'm sorry, all we can do is help you be as comfortable as possible.’

 

On one hand, him slipping and getting injured and going to the hospital was a mercy, because the cancer had been a silent assassin up until then. We didn't know, he hadn't been in any pain beyond a busted knee from a workplace accident, and it just... It was a lot to handle. My mother had been a single working mom, and my grandparents had just about raised me. I went home to Pops and Grandma during school lunch breaks and I slept over on Thursdays when Mom had her late shifts.

 

I used to cry because I'd miss her.

 

Then I cried because God, the universe, Fate, chance, what-have-you was taking my Pops from me.

 

I wished I hadn't known. Spending time with someone you knew would die soon was heartbreaking. Since we were living with Mom's current boyfriend and I had a key to the house, I didn't go to Pops's after school or during lunch breaks anymore. I was in middle school at the time and got bullied, but I left all that out when I visited them.

 

I close my eyes and swallow. I should've visited more often. I should've visited Grandma more often. Should have, should have, should have. I breathe in slowly, swallowing again through my constricted throat. My heart hammers in my chest and sweat gathers on my palms, bathing my chin in sweat. My diaphragm tightens and I breathe in, out, in, out. My lungs fill with air, but it's like something sucked the oxygen out of the room, leaving my lungs with nothing. I swallow again and squeeze my eyes shut tighter. The fingers that were drumming on my desk turn into nails scraping over wood. A splinter catches beneath the nail of my index finger and I wince, biting back a sob.

 

Hot. My eyes are unbearably hot with unshed tears and I just... I want to scream, to rage and pommel my desk and shout at Cullen to get the fuck out, I want to bang my head against the wall until the pain, the thoughts, the memories stop and I can go to sleep and wake up in the real world, and not in a video game that forced responsibilities on a girl who can barely take care of _herself_.

 

Point is: I told my father I'd rather have spent the remaining time with Pops not knowing he had cancer. I wished we’d never found out. I was young, the nasal cannula he used scared me, the oxygen tanks scared me, the IV-drip with morphine scared me. His eyes, glazed over from strong painkillers scared me, his hospital room neighbor who had an IV-drip with a thick white substance, and was still in enough pain to make him groan and grunt every few minutes scared me. Later, when Pops was allowed to go home and was stuck in bed, Mom's comment that "He was already gone with all the morphine" scared me the most. Scarred me. It's not something you tell a thirteen year old girl who's trying to spend time with _her_ Pops, who _raised_ her and was always there for her.

 

My father turned to me and told me in deliberate, clear words how my desire for ignorance came from selfishness, from wanting to stick my head into the sand and closing my eyes for the truth. Sure, he also told me I was strong enough to handle this and to live through it and what Pops and I had was special, like what Dad and _his_ father had had, but his voice barely made it through the haze in my head.

 

"Meredith?" Cullen asks softly, from the other end of a long tunnel of grief. I shake my head and force out a shuddering breath, swallowing in vain against the lump in my throat. Goddamnit, I can't fall apart here. Not now. But I can't catch my breath and my lungs won't expand and that damn splinter stings and I'm going to scream until my head explodes and god I just want to go home please get me home please please please I'll do anything.

 

I draw in a shaky breath and press my fingers against my eyes or my eyes against my fingers and hang my head, shoulders shaking quietly. My lip quivers, I hate it when my lip quivers and I bite my bottom lip to make it stop.

 

Make it stop make it stop someone make it stop. Why did I have to think about Pops right now, in a situation that has nothing to do with him? I let out a mirthless chuckle and my heart squeezes in distress. Fear flashes through me like a thunderbolt and I'm somewhere else, in a situation that has even less to do with Cullen or my Pops or anything else, really.

 

I'm at home in the small town my Mom and I moved to, to move in with her then-boyfriend. I'm ten, maybe eleven. Mom and my stepfather have just left me alone at home with my younger stepsister, she's nine years old but taller than me. Taller and stronger and bossier. She's only here on the weekends, because she's from my stepfather's previous marriage, but whenever she's here life is hell for me. I have to walk around the house on my tiptoes, or else she'll hear I'm up and want to play with me.

 

I don't want to play with her. Playing with her is never fun. She's mean and harsh and hurts me, both with words and physically. The front door closes with a soft click and she strides back into the room, a small knife in her hand. It's not a kitchen knife, it's her father's decorative envelope opener.

 

Why does she have it?

 

She stands in the doorway, her sleek blonde hair falling over one shoulder, puts her hand in the pocket of her jeans and turns the knife over in her hand, over and over and over.

 

She looks at me and smiles. "I'm the boss now," she says, smile still on her lips. "You have to do everything I tell you to do."

 

I remember trying to skirt past her, but the couch was in my way. I think I sat down on the couch eventually, frustrated and trapped and so angry it made my mouth taste foul.

 

It's a memory I only remembered years later, when I was twenty-two and in therapy for my autism and ADHD. The memory came unprompted, only announced by headaches and a caged feeling of dread and the need to run, to claw my way out of something, to escape.

 

I don't remember what happened in the time between her threats and my parents’ return. Mom didn’t believe me. My stepfather thought I was fantasizing and told me to stop making things up for attention. My _nine_ year old stepsister played the innocent victim. They told  me I was the older sister and had to be responsible, always be responsible.

 

After that, whenever that little bitch came over in the weekends, I became even sneakier and just bolted out of the house before she arrived. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. If my stepsister caught me, she'd insist on going with me. If my Mom heard us, she'd _make_ me take her. And sure, sometimes I wasn't careful enough sneaking out, and had to take her with me. And we did have civil conversations. But the entire time, in the back of my head, hate made my stomach squeeze together and my jaws clench and I just wanted to punch her in her stupid faux innocent face.

 

People can be monsters. Nine year olds can be monsters. If she did _that_ at nine years old, what is she capable of now, at twenty-one?

 

I exhale slowly and rub my eyes, grabbing a cloth out of a drawer and wiping over my eyes and underneath my nose. God this sucks. I groan and focus on my breathing. In and out. Even if it feels like nothing's going into my lungs, oxygen is going in there, otherwise, I would've passed out by now. I tilt my neck to the left until it cracks and do it again to the right. Cullen winces at the sound and I chuckle.

 

"It's nothing new. Sorry, I had... uhm... Things to process." I press my lips together into a humorless smile, looking up at him. A smile that says 'Damn it, I don't fucking know what I'm doing, either.'

 

I pinch my bottom lip between two fingers and close my eyes, staring at the inside of my eyelids. Enough with the traumatic experiences, I have a decision to make.

 

My stepsister, my mother, my stepfather and my father all hurt me. They had a choice in doing what they did. My stepsister could've at least _pretended_ to be a normal human person instead of a psychopath-to-be, my mother could've opened her eyes and supported her own _daughter_ instead of choosing her damn new lover, my father could've taken two seconds to think before he blurted out how selfish I was for being a thirteen year old girl confronted with a dying grandfather.

 

Looking the other way and taking my frustration and anger out on myself is how I survived all that. Instead of clawing out my stepsister's eyes, I'd pinch myself, or stomp on my own toes. I'd distract myself by spending all my free time on school work and studies and I _tried_ my best to ignore the bullies.

 

I look down at my hands, at the holes, one inch in diameter each. Did Orsino even see them when he was healing me? Did Alistair? Cullen, when I held his hand? He must've felt it, at least.

 

Maybe we all look away and think of other things when faced with things we can't repair.

 

Cullen is going to live his life believing he had a mental breakdown, killed three apprentices and who knows how many apostates, by his own choice. He's going to live his life believing he is a murderer. He's going to look over his shoulder for the ghosts of the innocents whose lives he took. Always fearing it can happen again. Always plagued by nightmares of death and blood and violence. But he wasn't in control of his actions, was he?

 

On the other hand... Do the feelings implied with character's actions carry through in this world? Were they written in somewhere? And how does this entire thing even work? If a writer decided Mythal is a backstabbing bitch who'll kill the Inquisitor, but doesn't put it in his developer's notes, does that mean it won’t bleed through?

 

Are the developers the true Gods behind Thedas? Do their thoughts influence this world? Am I setting myself up for a useless battle that's going to end in my death anyway? Fuck, does anything I do even matter?

 

And what about the others? What about Hawke, who may or may not lose her mother? What about the Orb? What about Karras's well-deserved painful death, or Alrik's demise in the Fade? What. Did. I. Do.

 

**Day 21 (4th of Cloudreach) 3:20 PM**

 

I lay my hands flat on my desk, staring straight through Cullen. In the right corner behind him, shadows of red and yellow and steel swirl together to form the incorporeal Meredith Stannard. Swell, just what I needed. Meredith crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the wall behind her, crossing her ankles and tilting her head to the side. Her eyebrows are raised, one corner of her lips pulled up in a sarcastic smile. Her long blonde hair flows in waves over her shoulders. Damn it, why did she get to keep her long hair?

 

"I say kill him," she says nonchalantly with a shrug. "You're all big on protecting your mages, and he just confessed to killing three innocent apprentices. Didn't you decide anyone who used their Templar powers over the mages deserved nothing but death?"

 

I don't reply and keep my eyes on Cullen.

 

"Cullen, for now, you'll be confined to your quarters. Someone will bring you food and water and clean laundry. And books, should you wish them. I stand by my promise about the Lyrium. I'll make sure you get decreasing doses. Please inform your attendant if you notice _any_ negative effects. Headaches, chest pains, trouble breathing, tingles in your hands, dizziness, night terrors..."

 

Cullen looks up, frowning. "What are... 'night terrors'?"

 

"It's when you wake up in the middle of the night, screaming your lungs out and flailing around because you're terrified of something."

 

His eyes widen. Groaning, he rubs his hand over his face. "Er... I think I already have those, actually."

 

Lovely. Just lovely. I roll my eyes and close them halfway, staring at my eyelids in irritation. Someone get me the newest DSM to shove down everyone's throats. My fingers drum against the desk while my forehead creases into a frown. Think, girl, think.

 

Meredith Stannard lets out an amused chuckle, a smirk on her face.

 

"So beautifully broken, don't you agree?" she asks, tilting her head to the side in mock-sympathy. "Haunted by his misdeeds, haunted by the rebellion, haunted by his own desires... Think of the dreams he must have at night, the Despair Demons snapping at his heels like bloodhounds on the hunt... Or the Desire Demons, taunting him, testing him by taking on the guise of Solona Amell..."

 

Meredith licks her lips. Ew.

 

"Tempting him-"

 

**TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR**

**HOW I WONDER WHAT YOU ARE**

 

She throws her head back and laughs, taking a step forward and narrowing her eyes, her hands clenched into fists.

 

She raises her voice. "And you think that will work? Honestly? A children's song? How despicable." Her shoulders shake with quiet laughter and she bares her teeth.

 

I turn my eyes back on Cullen, shuffling in my seat. Damn it, what was the treatment for night terrors? Sufferers are usually inconsolable, so trying to comfort them isn't going to cut it. I frown in concentration.

 

"Maybe the lyrium will help. Or a sleeping potion. We'll figure something out, I promise," I tell Cullen. Meredith rolls her eyes, rubbing her hands together in mad anticipation.

 

**UP ABOVE THE WORLD SO HIGH!**

**LIKE A DIAMOND IN THE SKY!**

 

"We, girl, are going to have so much fun together. I'll tear you apart. You're vulnerable now, and I'm a part of you. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."

 

**_THEN THE TRAVELLER IN THE DARK_ **

**_THANKS YOU FOR YOUR TINY SPARK_ **

 

Twinkle Twinkle Little Star couldn’t have been more inappropriate than this moment.

 

Meredith laughs, dimples appearing on her cheeks.

 

"I... Thank you, Knight-Commander," Cullen says. I'm pretty sure I saw his mouth move before that sentence, but I have no idea what he said. I incline my head and shove back my chair, and Cullen does the same.

 

"No, thank _you_ , Cullen," I tell him, extending my hand. He takes it hesitantly, and I give him a squeeze. Meredith snorts, turns her eyes heavenward and shakes her head. "You're brave for confiding in me. I'm grateful to have your trust."

 

Cullen blinks in surprise, blushes and averts his eyes. He mutters something incoherent.

 

"'Thank _you_ Cullen,'" she mimics in a high-pitched voice."'I love a broken man to love back to mental health.'"

 

**LA LA LA LA GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD BITCH**

**I'M SINGING LILY ALLEN NEXT**

**JUST SO YOU KNOW**

 

I bite my lips and drive the nails of my other hand into the hole in my palm. Fuck, it hurts. But I can't start glaring at thin air, that'd make me look even more insane. Meredith chuckles to herself.

 

I guide Cullen to the door, pulling it open for him.

 

"So you admit it? That you're slowly going crazy?" She laughs. "Oh girl, you'll break so easily."

 

**_THE WHEELS ON THE BUS GO ROUND AND ROUND_ **

**_ROUND AND ROUND_ **

 

Meredith laughs. “Whatever happened to Lily Allen?”

 

… I knew I should’ve watched the Exorcist. Over Cullen’s head, I glare at her.

 

I swear, I’ll trade you for Audacity and leave you in that statue to rot.

 

**Day 21 (4th of Cloudreach) 3:43 PM**

 

Anders just about trips into my office, and I nearly jump to the ceiling because he didn’t knock. He's lucky I don't have my sword with me - wait a minute, where is Certainty anyway? God, please tell me Karras didn't sell it. I need that sword to cling to.

 

Meredith glares at him, hands on her hips.

 

"An abomination!?" she shrieks, waving at him with both arms. "You invite an _abomination_ into the Gallows and you're going to let him live?!"

 

As amusing as it is to watch her lose her shit, it's detrimental to my sanity and amps up my headache. I groan and drop my head on the desk, breathing in and out.

 

"Hi, Anders. Don't bother making excuses about why you're late, you were probably watching Karras smolder," I mutter, hands clutching my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut.

 

"You. Did. What." Meredith's footfalls are deceitfully soft and paced, but her lips are twisted into a sneer and her teeth glint dangerously. Her eyes are wide and crazed and she slams her hand on my desk. I jerk back, the front legs of my chair leave the ground and I would've hit my head on the wall if Anders hadn't done... something, to straighten it out. It's like two hands lay on my shoulder blades and push me forward. I stare at Anders and blink.

 

Anders shrugs, lips pulling upward into a smile. "Force Mage," he says, pointing to himself. Cool. Force Magic is useful. Meredith sputters in the background. Oh, shut the fuck up, bitch please. Go crawl in a ditch and die.

 

"I'm already dead," she comments dryly. Yeah yeah, thanks Captain Obvious. Crawl into your shallow grave, then. I'll help you dig if you ask nicely.

 

"You're jumpy," Anders says gently, crouching down in front of me. I shove my chair out of the way, whirl on the wall and give it a kick my karate teacher would be envious off, following it up with both fists. My knuckles crack and blood splatters on the white wall.

 

"Wow wow wow, calm down, don't hurt yourself," Anders says, reaching for me, while Meredith cackles in the background. Flemeth's voice intertwines with her, and underneath a RHAAARH weaves itself through their voices. Hello, Old God Dragon soul. Go away. Now.

 

"Go away, _now,_ " I hear myself say, whirling on Anders. The muscles in my neck are strained beyond hurting, aching in a dull pain. My eyes are going to pop out of their sockets, my head is going to explode. Tears blur my vision, turning Meredith into a blob of yellow and red. My hands shake and I hook my fingers together, pressing my lips together to stop them from quivering. My scalp tingles and the back of my neck prickles. And my knuckles sting. Blood drips down on the floorboards.

 

Anders stares at me, blinking, his amber eyes wide. He raises his hands in supplication, taking a step back. The smile falls off his face.

 

"Hey, you're the one who asked for me, remember? If you send me away now, Alistair went through all the trouble for nothing. And I had to listen to him rattle about his epic dungeon escape for nothing." He sounds cheerful, but there's a frown on his face. He purses his lips.

 

"Look, sit down, and I'll take a look at your hands-"

 

"Don't touch me," I snap at him, scrambling backward and pressing into the wall with my hands. I shove my shoulder blades against the wall. What I wouldn't give to sink through it now. Meredith laughs and stalks toward me, hands on her sword.

 

"Can you feel it? Your heart exploding in your chest, the clawing fear?" My chest does heave up and down quickly, and my heart does pretend to be a galloping stallion. I swallow heavily, lean my head against the wall and close my eyes. Calm, I need to get calm. I need to catch my breath.

 

"Why don't you just kill him? I saw you cast a Holy Smite without having any lyrium in your blood. We could be invincible together. We could take over the Chantry. Wasn't that what you told Alrik you would do?" Her voice weaves its way through my head and I tremble, tiptoeing away from her. Anders follows my terrified gaze and frowns.

 

"Ah, remember how I asked if there was anyone in your head..."? he hedges, and I nod and nod and nod, a giant metal wrecking ball bouncing up and down inside my forehead. Ouch.

 

"There," I say frantically, my trembling finger pointing at her. "She's right there. She won't shut up."

 

Meredith draws her blade, her eyes going cold. Oh shit, shit. She strikes for my neck and I roll out of the way, her ethereal blade passing harmlessly through the plastered wall. Anders scrambles backward and I knock my head against the wall next to the door. Meredith laughs and follows me slowly, her eyes burning with malicious pleasure.

 

"I'll cut you to pieces," she says casually, with a smirk on her face. "I'll keep you awake at night. I'll rip out your tongue and force you to eat it. I'll carve sunbursts into your skin, so you'll never let anyone look at you again. I'll claw my way into your deepest, darkest thoughts and find your darkest desires and you won't be able to tune me out when I list them to you, over and over and over again."

 

I roll out of the way again, slamming my shoulder into the desk. I jump to my feet and dart my eyes through the room. Out. I need to get out, now. Before she reaches me. Before she can hurt me.

 

"Meredith-" Anders begins, and I whirl on him, gasping.

 

"Not my name, that's not my name," I pant at him, reeling back when Meredith's blade nearly slices through my fingers. Biting cold reaches for me while she laughs.

 

"All right, all right," Anders says, holding out his hands. "What's your name then, tell me." I stare at him, tripping over my feet when Meredith kicks at my shins. Her foot goes right through me and I try to kick her between her legs. Invisible frost wraps itself around my toes and ankle. So that's why my smites are cold. Figures.

 

Where's Moth when I need him, so I can dump her in the Fade?

 

My chest heaves up and down, my chest itches, my hands are slick with sweat. Sweat rolls down my temple and forehead and catches in my eyebrows. I shoulder deck Meredith and she disperses in mist and light and doesn't reshape herself. Thank God. Except for the part where I crash into the wall. My shoulder jars on impact and the plaster scrapes over my cheek. I flail for purchase. Shit, I'm going to fall backward and hit my head again, on my desk this time.

 

Hands wrap around my shoulders and pull me against a soft robe. Oh. Anders's hands tremble and he sighs against my hair, pulling me close. I tremble in his arms, irritation bubbling beneath my skin. Don't touch me, don't touch me don't touch me get your filthy hands off me.

 

"You're okay, you're okay. You're safe with me."

 

You mean like when you shoved me against the wall and tried to squeeze the life out of me? My throat constricts, an invisible hand squeezes my throat, fingers digging into my flesh. I clench my hands into fists and close my eyes. One breath in through my nose. One breath out through my mouth. Another breath in through my nose and out through my mouth. See? I can breathe just fine.

 

I tremble like a leaf. Anders lets go of me and rubs my arms, where goosebumps tingle. Healing magic flows from my arms to my shoulders, flushing my cheeks and nose, before cascading down my chest and pooling into my lower belly. From there it sifts through my thighs, rippling into my knees and filling my calves and toes. A few seconds later, it fades away.

 

"Thanks," I whisper with my cracked voice. Anders releases me and I turn around, meeting his eyes. He's pale, his lips are pressed together and his eyes are still opened widely. I rub my arms and blink away tears that threaten to fall. They catch on my eyelashes and drip down my cheeks anyway. I growl under my breath and wipe beneath my eyes, shivering with cold.

 

"Here," Anders says, taking off his coat, leaving him in his robes. I pull the coat around me tightly and rub my cheek against the feathers, gently blowing on one. I smile when it flutters in the wind, tracing another one with my fingers. They're black, but each has a hint of green, purple and blue if you turn them this way and that underneath the light of the sun.

 

I'm still cold. I'll never get warm again. My teeth start to chatter. I whimper and squeeze my eyes shut, burying my hands into the coat, clutching at the fabric tight enough to turn my knuckles white. Hard enough to make my fingers cramp, but the pain grounds me and I squeeze tighter.

 

Hands. Hands on my lower legs, slowly grazing my skin on their way upwards toward my thighs. I clamp my legs together but the chains unfold and clang when they restrict my movements. A dry chuckle in my ear, warm wet breath on my earlobe. Fingers on my thighs, caressing, tugging at my folds.

 

"Don't," I beg. "Don't touch me get your hands off me no no no-" I gasp, doubled over and clutching my sides. I shove my legs together and squeeze as hard as I can, my eyes and cheeks wet with tears. A breath shudders in and out and I think Anders mutters "Maker's breath," underneath his breath but I'm in the dungeons, in the dark so I can't be sure. My heart hammers violently in my chest.

 

No. No. Meredith made herself a Seeker. I am a Seeker. I _can_ fight. I have a weapon Karras knows nothing about.

 

And I could've used it against him.

 

Had I known about it.

 

Which I didn't.

 

It takes a few minutes for my heart to calm down.

 

“Anders?” I ask, looking at him through tear-blurred eyes. “Can we just sit and… I don’t know… talk about something else? Play a game, maybe? I don’t… I don’t want to be... I just… need something normal. Please.”

 

Anders closes his eyes for a few seconds and then opens them and nods slowly.

 

“Sure,” he says, pulling back a chair and straddling it. I dig around in my desk drawers until I find an old, faded stack of Wicked Grace cards.

 

“Can you teach me?” I ask, showing him the cards. He snorts, dragging his hand through his hair.

 

“I’m hardly a player myself,” he says, with a smile. “But I can certainly try.”


	11. Games

**[Sleepover poll - RESULTS](https://i.imgur.com/WUjCihF.png) **

* * *

 

**Day 21 (4th of Cloudreach) 05:00 PM**

 

Today is the first day I eat in the mess hall instead of my apartments. Anders left fifteen minutes ago after teaching me the basics of Wicked Grace (I doubt I’ll remember anything other than ‘the Abomination is the card forcing the next player to give you one of their cards, unless you have a Templar card handy’ tomorrow, but he’ll probably be happy explaining it to me every day for the rest of my life) and eating on my own just seems… stifling.

 

My apartments are both too small and too large, the walls are too close together and the one window that opens, opens to the outside and I don’t want anyone to be able to climb in. I wouldn’t be able to slam the window shut and break their fingers with the impact.

 

The opened doors to the mess hall are double doors made from gold, carved decorations depicting an Exalted March against Tevinter, led by Andraste herself. How long did they march before Shartan’s escaped slaves joined with them? Shartan himself had been a slave.

 

Game-wise, the Inquisition was all set to either infiltrate or march on Tevinter. Fenris, if he was alive and free, returned to Tevinter to free other slaves. Most theories agree he'd be the leader of a slave uprising.

 

Funny how the Inquisitor is called Herald of _Andraste_ , isn't it?

 

With a sigh, I step into the mess hall. Cherry wood tables stand in rows of eight, long enough to seat at least twelve people on each. Space is sparse and Templars eat and talk with their elbows tucked in. Most of them are still in their armor, just returning from their patrols or training, though a few of them wear breeches and shirts. One of them wears leathers and has a crossbow on his back, both splattered with dark red blood.

 

 _Drip drip drip._ Blood drips through a crack in the cell, mixing with the river of lukewarm blood on the floor, which caresses my cheek with ripples when I blink and try to lift my head. Around me is nothing but darkness, no sound but the rapid beating of my frantic heart-

 

I blink and the din of eating Templars slams against me with deafening volume. I reel back, short and quick steps carrying me away from the hall. After rounding a corner, I lean against a wall and brush my fingers over the grains in the wall. One of them is shaped like a Twinkle, another one vaguely resembles popcorn, and I'm pretty sure the barracks have a mouser cat because one patch feels like the wallpaper at home after the cat used it for a scratcher mat.

 

With a sigh, I lean my head against the wall and just breathe in and breathe out. My hair, even short as it is, catches on the grains. In. One. Out. Two. In. Three. Out. Four.

 

By seventy-six, my heart still hasn't slowed down, but my mind isn't running around Wilhelm screaming anymore, either, so I'm good to go. With my hands curled into fists, I stride back, lips pressed together and my tongue stuck shoved between my molars.

 

I pass the threshold and someone shouts: “Knight-Commander! Over here!”

 

My triceps burn when the muscles strain to the point of cramping, heaviness settles in my stomach and ice trickles down my spine, edging the rest of my body into goosebump mode.

 

“Shut up, Mallory!” the woman next to her hisses. “You don't just yell at someone like her.”

 

Mallory is a Templar in light armor, with two sheaths on her back and a thin sheath on her leather belt. She's like a bear, taking up the space of two persons all on her own, solely with muscle. Her brown hair is braided and artfully pinned in a crown on her head, and her pale green eyes regard me unapologetically.

 

‘Someone like her.’ Does she mean the Knight-Commander or a rape survivor?

 

“No, _you_ shut up, Mangles.”

 

“Bitch.”

 

“Cunt.”

 

Fuck the duck, what the fuck?

 

Mallory and her neighbor stare at each other in open hostility, while the rest of the table (all women) doesn't even look up. ‘Mangles’ (hopefully a nickname) has a round, homely face with rosy cheeks and minx-colored hair that forms a curtain over her forehead and curls around her chin. Her grey eyes meet mine and her rosy lips tug into a genuine smile. She gestures to the empty seat next to her and I float toward them, using Mangles as an anchor.

 

Mallory snorts when I drop into the bench and Mangles slides a tray with a bowl of gruel and a spoon in front of me.

 

“He stuck his dick into her cunt. Still left her legs to walk on.” Mallory’s voice is loud enough to drop the entire hall into silence. Mangles curses under her breath and Thrask, who sits in the center of the hall, swings his legs over his bench and strides toward us, his face tomato red and his eyes bulging out of their sockets. A vein throbs on his left temple.

 

“Ser Lete!” He barks at Mallory, who looks up at him through her eyelashes and leans back on the bench. “Latrine duty. Three months. Come with me, now.”

 

Mallory rolls her eyes and shoves herself to her feet, but I lay my hand on her arm and pull her back down. Damn, she's like a tree, her surprise probably being the only reason she sits down again.

 

“I appreciate the gesture, but there's no need,” I tell Thrask in a clear voice. “I'll handle it. Do carry on, everyone.”

 

Because of course, the mess hall became The Hanged Man 2.0., with spoons frozen halfway to mouths, gruel plopping down on wood or armor or pants, or shoved into beards instead of pieholes. Gruelbeard drags his fingers through his grizzled beard and grimaces when his fingers come out covered in gray muck.

 

Thrask manages a tight nod, before dumping his half-emptied tray on a cart with violent clattering. He practically stomps out, back ramrod straight. Eyes follow him, which means they're not looking at me. Thank God.

 

“You're the first one to actually say it,” I tell Mallory while I drag my spoon through my bowl. I'm sorry, did I say drag? I meant scrape and chisel-and-hammer with the other end of my spoon and the mouse of my hand.

 

Mallory smiles, reaches for the small bowl of grapes on the tray opposite her and slams it down on my tray. The original owner protests and Mallory points at the woman with her finger. “You have food. Commander needs food. Now you don't have food. End of story.” Her voice is low and stern, the threat barely hidden.

 

She'd definitely throttle me if I hand the bowl back, so I do my best to divide the grapes into four equal portions and drop them on our trays, which earns me a snort from Mallory, a polite thanks from Mangles and a relieved exhale from the original owner.

 

“Thank you, Knight-Commander,” she says. Her cheeks are gaunt and she sounds like she has a stuffy nose, her throat hoarse and scratchy. My ears perk up, my mind scrambling for something, anything, like hands closing around loose sand. Her brown hair narrowly doesn't fall in front of her right eye save for one strand, her mouth is too broad for her narrow face and her upper lip too thin compared to her bottom lip.

 

“No problem. And please, call me Meredith, Ser…” I trail off expectantly. She starts and blushes, squaring her shoulders.

 

“Ser Ruth, Knight-Commander.”

 

Always good to make an old new acquaintance. Hello, Ser Ruth. What will it take to keep you out of the Grey Wardens?

 

**Day 21 (4th of Cloudreach) 07:56 PM**

 

Around eight, my eyes start drooping and I take a long hot bath and crawl into my bed for a nap. As usual, my control in the Fade lasts for around three seconds before I’m swept out of my body and look at myself helicopter-view style. Which is odd, seeing how Mythal is a Dreamer. Razikale must be a Dreamer as well, so why aren’t _I_ a Dreamer? Meredith _did_ say they’d been destroyed, so maybe the remnants are just enough to give me temporary control before they… remember they’re dead? I don’t fucking know.

 

Dream Me sits in my Dad’s living room at the dining table. The heater is turned on, blasting waves of hot air into the living room from beside their anthracite corner seat. The window lets in the bleak autumn sun and I smile at the red, brown and yellow colored leaves that lay in piles on the pavement.

 

Autumn is my favorite season ever, despite the fact it announces winter is coming. There's just something about the not-quite-warm air, smelling vaguely of rain and warm leaves that's comforting, like a heated blanket. I used to walk my neighbors' dog and step on the leaves on purpose to hear them crush underneath my boots. Autumn was the season when I'd start wearing my leather gloves, worn from age because they'd been my Mom's before they were mine. It was the season of chapped lips and lip balm, of hot chocolate and warm mint tea, of chocolate letters because Saint Nicholas 'arrived', which basically meant an old guy wore a fake Dumbledore beard and men with painted dark faces would toss kruidnoten into a crowd of deliriously happen children.

 

Saint Nicholas always arrives on a gray roan named Amerigo in The Netherlands and... wait for it... _Bad Weather Today_ in Flanders. Yes. I don't know what they were smoking, either. (In the event I obtain a Thedosian horse, I'm totally calling it Bad Weather Today.)

 

Anyway, Dream Me wears my favorite autumn hoodie, a fluffy brown abomination that makes her look like a harmless teddy bear. Especially since Dream Me isn't my original body, but Meredith Stannard. Mental note: don't obtain Christmas sweaters. Just don't. Unless I want to make Darkspawn keel over from laughter.

 

Maybe I can dance the Remigold with Alistair and then we can kill the laughing Darkspawn together.

 

Her feet are tucked into fluffy pink socks, tapping against the floor in tandem with the ticking mantle clock on the kitchen cupboard. It's actually outside the kitchen but filled to the brim with special occasion china that's been gathering dust as long as I remember. There's also booze. A lot of booze. Dad used to work in insurances, and business partners and clients gave him Merlots and Glen Tellochs and the like for business presents, which he guarded with his life. The first Merlot still has its own space on the bottom shelf, even though it must have turned into vinegar by now.

 

Dream Me chops carrots and onions on a chopping board with a mean looking ceramic knife, for once in my life working with the speed and efficiency Gordon Ramsay would be envious of. Her eyes don't tear up and she chops in rhythmic motions, adding piles and piles of vegetables to a metal pot in the middle of the table. Dad's dog Spike, a Tosa of 50 kilos and an adorable wrinkly post-nap happy-face, ambles over to the table and lies its head on Dream Me's right leg, looking forlornly at the food. With a smirk, Dream Me feeds Spike carrots and potatoes and what have you, laughing when he puts his front legs on her chair and licks her face.

 

Dad comes into the room, dressed in jeans and a hoodie, his face gaunt and his eyes drooping from exhaustion. Yeah, this is post-burnout time. There are bags underneath his eyes and he blinks, not entirely awake yet, but he sits down and gives me and Spike a broad smirk nonetheless, pulling another chopping board and knife to himself. His hands are always shaky when he has to do small work, but he manages well enough, watching my work with obvious envy.

 

"So," he says. "How's life going for you, meissie?" A lump forms in my throat, even though I don't really have a body in this dream. Meissie is what he always called me. Moppie was another nickname. Meissie means 'little girl' and moppie is just an endearment like honey or sweetheart. Dream Me looks up with tears in her eyes, swallowing heavily and blinking stubbornly.

 

"Awful. I'm in a world I know and don't know at the same time. Someone decided they'd make me the most powerful person in that world, while that person is the biggest bitch you can imagine. And crazy, don't forget the crazy." Dream Me wipes over her eyes and resolutely starts chopping tomatoes, ignoring the soggy mess she's making. Dad pauses his work and purses his lips, tilting his head to the side. Spike snags a piece of carrot and munches contently.

 

"But _you're_ not crazy," he says, after a few seconds, steepling his hands on top of his chopping board. "So tell your dear old dad what's bothering you, and I'll have a solution coming right up. Promise."

 

Her hands shake as she drops a pile of soaked tomatoes into the pot, moving on to a red bell paprika. It's one of the misshaped ones most grocery stores throw away, except for one A-grade store refusing to waste perfectly good vegetables. They give a nice discount for imperfect veggies. I can't remember ever cooking with Dad like this, and my stepmother and little sister are nowhere to be seen, but this is nice. I wish I could stay here forever.

 

"I was raped," I tell him, after drawing in a deep breath to gather courage. "I don't remember everything. It's like a dream that happened to someone else. I don't know what to do."

 

Dad's hands shake and he shoves his chopping board away, pushes himself out of his chair and pulls me into a hug without hesitation. I breathe in the scent of his hoodie, of the sweet gel he uses to style his hair into spikes every morning, and just wrap my arms around him and exist. Nothing bad happened, this is just another weekend where we randomly decided to cook a big dinner. Saturday Soup day, I guess.

 

Spike gets jealous and whines, wringing himself in between our legs and pushing his head between Dad's legs, wiggling his butt enthusiastically. I laugh and grab his tail because the damn thing is whipping my legs like crazy. Dad and I crouch down, him scratching Spike's 'manes' (basically a bulge of fat around his collar, heh) and me scratching Spike's hips. His butt wriggles and he pants happily.

 

"I'd say go to the police, but I don't think they have police over there, right?" he asks, and I shake my head. Nope, no police. No rape kits. No psychiatrists. No therapy. Lovely.

 

"No," I say, blinking tears away. "I think I'll have to do everything on my own again. Only this time I can't blame bureaucracy. Or the inherited ADHD and autism you gave me. I still want to trade it for something else, by the way." We smile at the old joke and scratch Spike in silence for a few more minutes, while my Dad ponders my options and I think about nothing.

 

Dad hums and clears his throat. "So who do I need to shove head-first into a shredder?"

 

I roll my eyes and scoff. "I don't think ashes shred well."

 

He looks at me, taking me in with pursed lips. Finally, he nods. "I rest my case. Always told you, you were stronger than you knew. ."

 

Smiling, Dream Me shuffles forward and hugs Spike from the back, leaning her head against his flank. A growl of joy rumbles in his throat and he twists his head around to give her slobbery kisses.

 

"What do I do, Dad?" I ask, scratching my scalp while dragging the other hand through my short hair. "There are no therapists here. I mean, I Googled stuff when I considered going back to school to become a psychiatrist specializing in ADHD - I don't think I ever told you about that - but I don't know what the procedure is for this."

 

He gives a thin-lipped smile and shrugs, averting his eyes and scratching Spike behind the ears.

 

"EMDR," he says after a few seconds. "Counseling, cognitive therapy, uhm, exposure therapy." I almost expect for milk and eggs to follow it up, but he trails off with a shrug. My stomach tightens. Right. I forgot. He knows what he's talking about because he had to support someone who'd gone through it. Not my current stepmom, but close enough. I swallow.

 

"Thanks," I whisper hoarsely, pressing a kiss on Spike's head. Spike shoves against me until the three off us become a heap on the floor, stuck between heavy dog and linoleum.

 

"No problem, meissie," he says with a smile, squeezing my hand while he shoves Spike off us with his other arm. "You can always talk to me if there's something wrong, or if you just want to talk. You know that. Even if you just want me to tell you 'Everything's going to be alright', like when you had nightmares from that movie."

 

And here's the waterworks again. I sniff and press myself against his chest, bawling my eyes out against his dark gray hoodie. He wraps his arms around me and holds me tightly.

 

"That Alistair kid seems all right," he says contemplatively. "I don't think he needs a shovel talk." I laugh and cough when I choke on my own saliva from laughing so hard, my shoulders shaking. Spike feels left out and barks loud enough to trigger the neighbors two Spitz hounds. Their barks are laughably thin and high-pitched in comparison to Spike, and he growls back at the wall in contempt. My dad and I snicker quietly in the background.

 

"I'm not _with_ Alistair, or anyone else, for that matter," I tell him with narrowed eyes. Dad chuckles and rubs the stubble on his chin. It's his weekend look. At least he took the time to put gel into his hair to turn it into spikes. He used to have a mustache when I was young, which made every goodbye kiss tickle. It also made toddler Me cling to the legs of any man with a mustache. Oops.

 

"Good," he says, with a faux-stern tone and narrowed eyes. "Because the broody elf is a reclusive alcoholic, the healer guy is a schizophrenic domestic abuser, the dwarf has more spies than an ant colony, your former second-in-command is a murderer by his own admission, the elf girl cuts herself to fix some old mirror that won't even work without a password, and the pirate lady has had the clap so many times it's a standing ovation."

 

Dragon Age 2, summarized by my Dad, everyone.

 

I give him a wide-eyed grimace and shrug. "Yeah, okay. But I'm fixing things. Like I always do."

 

Dad snorts and shakes his head. "You can't fix things alone. You're going to need that gang of crazy assholes, including that narcissistic girl named Hawke. Alistair has my approval, I'd walk you to the aisle for that one. The others, though..." he pauses. "You know how I feel about alcoholics and abusers."

 

I roll my eyes. "You'd drag the first to rehab by their hair, and shove the other one's head into grandma's pond until the bubbles stop. Yeah, I know." I square my shoulders and meet his eyes, bracing myself.

 

"But it's not that simple. It's not a matter of wrong and right, or bad and good. Not in Thedas. There's... biases and favoritism and dear god I need Anders's coat to use as a pillow or else I'll bawl my eyes out every time I lie down to sleep."

 

Sniffing, I shake my head and take the package of Tempos (Dutch man's Kleenex) he offers me. After blowing my nose and stuffing the handkerchief into my pocket, I rub my eyes and shake my head.

 

"I need all of them to do what needs to be done. The Chantry has to be reformed, or it has to go entirely. The Seekers need to change. I don't think I can leave any of them alive except for Cass. The Templars... they need to be broken down and rebuilt from the ground up. I usually don't say this, but: Fuck the system."

 

My father smirks and pulls me into another hug, rubbing my shoulders. "There's my meissie. Everything's going to be all right. And yes, you can still put that on my grave. Even if I die from my own stupidity. And yes, you can bury me in that Dooskist you found online." The dry sarcasm makes me laugh until I'm crying again. Spike barks loudly and jumps up and down, quite a feat for such a large dog.

 

Dad always insisted we could just stick him in a cardboard box and be done with it, he isn't one for elaborate emotional funerals. So one day, I went on the internet to find out if such a thing was possible. Turns out it was, in a 300 euros worth of cardboard casket appropriately called a Dooskist. A doos is a box in my language, essentially the name means "Cardboard casket." It's a pun, but I guess it's only funny in Dutch.

 

My wet eyelashes stick to Anders's coat when I wake up, and I rub my cheek against the damp feathers, clinging to it with my hands. After a few minutes of distraught shaking and sobbing, I hug myself and rub my arms, biting my bottom lip. The dream felt so real. But it wasn't my Dad. He wouldn't have known Alistair or any of the others. I'm surprised the spirit, (probably Compassion) didn't turn into Rage when he realized what had been done to me. If my father had been a Thedosian mage, he would've made a pact with a hundred demons in a heartbeat if it would make me feel better, even if it was only for a second.

 

The floorboards creak underneath my feet when I swing my legs off my bedside and place them on the floor. The dream made me sweaty and clammy, so I run a bath with warm water and drop a sachet of chamomile, sage, lavender, lemon balm and just a handful of yarrow into the steaming water, breathing in the scent of autumn through my nose and mouth.

 

Eye movement desensitization reprocessing, or EMDR. Maybe I can ask Fenris or Sebastian to train with me, while I tell them what happened, or at the very least how I feel about it. The repetitive movements of battle will hopefully soothe my mind. Exposure. I'll visit the dungeons, maybe retrieve the manacles and chains to hold in my hands. Isabela might be willing to help, too. Bondage was a part of my life before this, a part of me, and I'd hate to lose it because Karras couldn't keep his hands and his dick to himself.

 

I don't even really know what cognitive therapy means so that one's scratched off the list. I can go to Elthina or Sebastian or Thrask for counseling. I think Alistair would be too uncomfortable to listen to me and say something in return, and Fenris will probably just chuck wine bottles at the wall the entire time, cursing in Arcanum. Anders is a fellow sufferer, as much as I hate that term already. Maybe we can cling to each other and heal together.

 

I might not be healed after one nap, or even after a year, but I'll be alright. The dream gave me the tools I need to piece myself together.

 

Everything will be alright, just like he said.

 

Damn right. I’ll make everything alright even if it is the last thing I do. With a smile, I breathe in the scent of elfroot and healing potion that clings to Anders's coat and fall asleep again.

 

**Day 21 (4th of Cloudreach) 10:22 PM**

 

Though the dream was the nicest dream I've ever had, waking up from my 'second' nap is like waking up from full body anesthetic in the recovery room: I bolt upright, gasping for breath like I've spent minutes underwater and only just reached the surface, clutching Anders's coat to my bare, sweat-soaked chest like it's the only thing keeping me from falling apart. My stomach does a set of backflips Leliana would be envious of, and I flail out from underneath the sheets and stagger to the bathroom, making it just in time to throw up in the sink.

 

I don't know why the fuck my dream made me so nauseous, or maybe it was the rough transition between sleeping and waking. Maybe it's the effect spirits have on a new Seeker. Or maybe Razikale just didn't appreciate the grapes I had for dinner. With a sigh, I run scalding hot water into the basin and splash it around until all signs of my accident are gone. There's still a faint acidic smell, but I lather up some soap in my hands and scrub and scrub until everything smells like pine needles.

 

"Meredith?" There's a knock on my door and I turn the water off, shaking droplets off my fingers. I locked the door, but that doesn't stop baby rogue Elsa from picking the lock. Look a that, I guess Zevran "insufficient skill" Arainai has gained a few skill points after the Blight. Or maybe Elsa picked up my book on lock picking and stole my lockpicks. I'm pretty sure I haven't seen those things in ages, come to think of it. Damn, robbed by my own assistant.

 

She comes in, holding the silverite lockpicks delicately in her fingers, her hair an absolute Medusa sans snakes, bags under her eyes and blinking sleepily at me. For a few seconds, I just stare, before I burst into laughter, pointing at her like a complete idiot until tears roll down my cheeks and I can't draw in enough breath to laugh anymore and start coughing so hard I nearly vomit again. Elsa yawns and blinks at me, her head tilted to the side like I'm the crazy one.

 

If you’re thinking ‘You _are_ the crazy one’: Congratulations, you’ve just signed your name on my list of people that need to be more dead.

 

"Sorry," I say after I've composed myself and washed my face and swished my mouth with a minty mouthwash. "I woke up and felt sick. I didn't mean to wake you up."

 

Elsa shrugs, brushing her hair out of her eyes. My eyes fall on her nightgown and I look down at myself. Oh. Right. I'm stark naked. Hehe oops, my bad. Burn the bra's feminists unite, everyone. Anders's coat lays crumpled on the threshold and I wrap it around myself. There's probably some Bible Belt figure rolling over in their grave from my scandalous behavior, and no doubt Anders will die if he ever finds out I wore his coat with nothing underneath, but it's nice and warm so I don't give a damn.

 

"It's no matter. Did you take witherstalk, yet?" She regards me with serious eyes, her hands on her hips. Did I take what? I stare at her, opening and closing my mouth like some kind of fool.

 

"Er, in Common, please?"

 

Elsa snorts. "That _was_ Common. Witherstalk? Against pregnancy?"

 

Oh.

 

Anders, you're the worst doctor in the world. Get your ass back to med school, bitch please.

 

"No, I did not. Anders didn't even check for pregnancy, I think," I say, worrying the inside of my cheek. It's only been two weeks, right? I shouldn't be feeling that sick. That's second-trimester stuff? Elsa rolls her eyes, gestures for me to stay - woof, yes boss - and disappears into my bedchamber. I sit against the bathtub and lean my forehead against the cold tiles, closing my eyes. One, in. Two, out. Three, in. Four, out. Five, in. And so forth and so forth until Elsa returns at thirty-two and my stomach is clenching like it's going to turn itself inside out on its own. Gotta love the placebo effect.

 

"I put some honey into it, but it'll still be bitter. Brought you a bucket just in case," Elsa says, shoving a stone bucket into my hands. I set it down between my legs and take a steaming wooden cup from her, filled to the brim with a foul-smelling, swamp-colored concoction. I'm pretty sure it'd make Darkspawn get the hell out of Dodge. I should convince Varric to load Bianca with flasks of this, he'd be invincible.

 

I knock it back and swallow a couple of times, gagging and retching before losing the battle and depositing the vile stuff into the bucket. Didn't think it was possible, but it smells even worse and I vomit again.

 

Hey, look, half-digested grapes. Yikes. Ser Ruth can have all the grapes she wants from now, I ain't gonna eat anymore for the rest of my life.

 

"Take a bath," Elsa says, tapping the hot water rune and tossing a sachet of minty herbs into the bottom of the tub without looking in my direction. "And I'll head to Lowtown and the Alienage to get Isabela and Merrill for a sleepover."

 

A sleepover? What?

 

"Er. Alright. Cool." I don't know what else to say. It's not like anyone can convince a Tranquil to abandon an idea, anyway. For emotionless sleepwalkers, they can be as stubborn as pit bulls.

 

I want a pitbull to hug. Or better yet, a Mabari Hound of my own. Yeah, I want a Mabari. Bitch please, no-one can stop me from getting a pet. Even a deepstalker would be great. They're ugly as vultures, but I always thought vultures had a beauty of their own, and beauty something something beholder and stuff, anyway.

 

**Day 21 (4th of Cloudreach) 11:00 PM**

 

Over half an hour later, Elsa returns with Niana, Merrill, and Isabela in tow, each carrying bedrolls and a ridiculous amount of fluffy, brightly colored pillows. Isabela's darkly skinned leg peeps out from under her leather cloak, naked up until her thigh when the splits of the cloak get together. Seems I'm not the only one who prefers going skyclad underneath nothing but a cloak. Heh. I wonder what Elsa told Isabela: 'Come on, join our sleepover orgy, it'll be fun!'? If so, where's Zev?

 

Oh, I know, he'll totally walk in on us when the orgy is well underway.

 

Wait what the fuck am I thinking? Take a chill pill, brains. And buy a chastity belt while you're at it, for good measure.

 

Merrill is at least decently dressed in a long, oversized tunic that reaches her knees. I raise an eyebrow at her. Her eyebrows bunch up into a frown and she looks down at herself. "I've dressed right, right?" she asks, hesitant. I smile at her double ‘right’. Right. Of course you did, honey. "I usually don't wear anything to bed, so I took Hawke's tunic."

 

Isabela's eyes widen and she whistles. "Kitten! Since when are you dancing the horizontal Antivan with Hawke?! I want _all_ the dirty details! Spill it!"

 

Merrill blushes and laughs, shaking her head. "No no, Creators, this is just from when someone tried to mug us in front of my house and she got blood on it. I promised to wash it."

 

"And instead of returning it right away, you're wearing it to a sleepover. Sure, Merrill, you don't have a crush _at all,"_ Elsa says. Merrill's mouth opens and closes and her fingers worry at the tunic's hem.

 

“It’s nothing like that,” Merrill protests half-heartedly. “We’re just working on my Eluvian once a week, nothing more.” Isabela laughs her trademark throaty laugh and unrolls her bedroll, glass, and metal tinkling suspiciously as she does so.

 

Sure enough, she's brought enough booze to down a family of elephants. Oh dear. Three packages wrapped in vellum crinkle and I narrow my eyes.

 

"I hope those aren't sex toys, Bela. I'll be the first to admit a sex party was on my bucket-list back in my world, but I think it's going to take me years before I'm back at that level of comfort," I tell her skeptically. Isabela arches her eyebrows at me and gives me a wolfish smirk, brushing her hair off her cloak (and making it fall open even further, revealing the curve of a breast).

 

Jeesh. Hear now, Andraste, daughter of Brona / Spear-made of Alamarr, to valiant hearts sing / Of victory waiting, yet to be claimed from /The steel-bond forgers of barren Tevene.

 

Yeah, no. The Chant ain't distracting me this time. Sorry, Andraste. I avert my eyes from Isabela's breasts and focus on her slender, deft hands (heh) as she turns the packages over in her hand, frowning at them and shaking them with pursed lips.

 

"Right, this one's yours, Elsa," she says, shoving a smaller one into Elsa's held out hands. Elsa raises her eyebrows, head tilted to the side, but doesn't comment.

 

"Yours. Careful, fragile stuff." Isabela just about throws the package at Niana's head, who topples over when she narrowly catches it. Her knees bump against the side of my bed and she falls on top of the blankets with an _oof._ But the package is saved, no thanks to Isabela and Niana straightens, puts it on her lap and neatly starts folding back the vellum.

 

"Did I miss a memo on a Kirkwall national holiday or something?" I ask doubtfully, glancing back and forth between Isabela, Niana and Elsa. Merrill turns pleading wide eyes on me and I give a helpless shrug. Isabela laughs and cranes her neck, kneading into the last package like she's giving it a massage. Why is she feeling what it is if it's the last one, anyway?

 

"No worries, sweet thing," she says in a reassuring tone, a smile on her lips. "No holiday. Just Zevran going to ridiculous lengths to cheer everyone up. He doesn't know how to deal with sad people."

 

With a grin, she holds out the third package for me, and after a few seconds of hesitation, I take it from her and finger the package myself, before shaking it next to my ear. Whatever it is, tinkles like it's a bunch of coins. I doubt Zev thinks I'm piss-poor, though. With a shrug, I settle in to open it, sneaking glances at Niana and Elsa.

 

My bed is littered with an assortment of bottles ranging from the size of my thumbnail to my pinky fingernail, filled with all kinds of liquids. Some of them are oily, others are neon and look like they'd glow in the dark, while others are murky or filled with something that looks like dust. I don't think it's nail-polish, though. Niana nods in appreciation, dusting off her hands. "These are adequate, tell him I said 'Thanks'."

 

Isabela snorts and rolls her eyes. " _Adequate_. He'll roll over in his grave. Do you even know what kind of favors he called in for these?" Niana only shrugs, however, replacing the bottles and vials on the packaging and rolling them up, folding the ends into the corners.

 

"I did not ask anything of him," she says dryly. "They are, however, appreciated and welcome."

 

Elsa's present is a dagger that nearly makes Isabela keel over from shock. Merrill 'oooh's over it with wide eyes. I lean forward and frown when Elsa draws the dagger, it's hilt a triangular shaped length of painted dragonbone with dwarven runes carved into it. The blade is wavy and gleams purple in the blue light of the glowstones in my bedroom. Veins of blue pulsing light glimmer in its depths and Elsa's hands tremble before she gasps and drops it, blinking rapidly.

 

"Oh," she says. " _Oh_. I swear I felt _something._ Strange..." she mutters, trailing off. Merrill and Isabela gape at Elsa. After a few seconds of silence, Isabela curses like a sailor and slaps Elsa on her back.

 

"Damn girl, he must respect you a lot to give you something like that. I'm jealous."

 

"I don't get it...?" Merrill asks, her eyes darting from me to the rest, wide and confused. I roll my eyes, shake my head, and sit crossed-legged on my floor, leaning against my bed. I tip my head back and sigh.

 

"Tranquility is reversible," I say. To hell with beating around the bush. "It involves being in the Fade and getting touched by a spirit. I haven't quite figured out how to go about it, since there's only one person who knows the process and it might've been a fluke." I shrug.

 

"I'm hoping to replicate it here, eventually. With a Somniari, maybe."

 

Merrill opens and closes her mouth, her fingers drumming on the floor, her toes flexing. Finally, she comes to a decision and her strained expression relaxes, her lips turning into a smile.

 

"That's good to hear. _Mythal'enasal_ , be gentle when you tell Anders. Poor Karl."

 

My fingers freeze on the package, where I'd been prying corners out from underneath each other. What the fuck did enasal mean again? Help. What if she figured it out? I stare at her in bewilderment and she laughs at my expression.

 

"I said: 'Thank Mythal, that's a relief.' A sad relief, because of Karl, but still a relief for all mages in Thedas," she explains, still smiling.

 

"Ma serannas," I say automatically.

 

Er. Shit.

 

Merrill beams, however, her eyes lighting up like it's Christmas morning. I guess it kinda is, with all the presents. Wait, where's _her_ present?

 

"Yes, I suppose I should've thanked _you,_ as well as Mythal. Ma serannas, Meredith _._ Where did you learn elven?"

 

I suppose 'the Internet' would be an honest answer, but I'd rather not have to take two full hours to explain the concept of Google to them. So I shrug.

 

"The library. Well, from books, not the library itself, obviously. But that and 'Ma nuvenin' are just about the only phrases I know. Er, I hope I didn't butcher them, by the way." Merrill smiles reassuringly and shakes her head.

 

"Not much. You had the emphasis on serannas wrong, but you almost sounded Dalish when you said 'As you say', so you're fine," she says.

 

"Ir abelas," I say dryly in an apology, which makes her laugh. Isabela rolls her eyes and whacks me on the head with a pillow.

 

"Stop talking elfy and open that!" she chastises me, and laughing, I follow her command and unwrap her present. Or rather, Zev's present. Warmth spreads from my belly to my chest when I think about _that_. He hasn't even met me yet and bought me a present. Even if it is a pity present. I think I fell in love.

 

Spoken for. He's spoken for. He's practically _married_ to the Hero of Ferelden, for God's sake. Hands-off. Something heavy and obling, around nine millimeters in length falls out of the package...

 

Holy flying fuck Zevran gave me a _bullet_. My cheeks become ice-cold and my heart speeds up. With my mouth gaping and eyes widely opened in shock, I stare at the tiny little thing sitting harmlessly in the palm of my hand. It's made from copper (which is good, no lead poisoning for me) and inlaid with veins of silver and gold.

 

I knew I shouldn't have described bullets to Isabela.

 

Next thing I know, Thedosians are going to run around carrying guns. Hello Industrial Revolution. Please God, let Thedas remain Thedas, land of swords and shields.

 

The flat end has a gold chain looped through it, with a clasp. I hang it around my neck and clasp it on, and it falls comfortably just at the top of my breastbone. With the pendant clutched in my hand, I turn and look at Isabela with serious eyes.

 

"Bela, tell him this is the best present anyone can ever give me in my life, and that I'll give him anything he wants in return, whenever he wants."

 

" _Anything_?" she emphasizes, with raised eyebrows. I laugh and roll my eyes.

 

"Hell yeah. Any favor, anything I can help him with, whatever he wants. I mean, big stuff might take me a couple of years, but he's got my commitment for sure. And my undying loyalty. Ha, I guess my loyalty is a purchase after all."

 

"I'll drink to that," she says with a smirk, uncorking a bottle with amber liquid. "Antivan style." Indeed, it's Antivan Brandy and a fine one, warming my throat without making my chest itch with the need to cough my lungs out. Its warmth spreads from my chest seemingly into my lungs and my stomach and I sigh in contentment.

 

"So, Anders taught me some Wicked Grace. Anyone up for a game?" I ask, pulling the same faded pack of cards out of the pocket of my jeans. Breeches. Damn it, I'm just calling them jeans, get over it.

 

Isabela's smirk widens. "What are we betting on?"

 

"Favors," Elsa answers immediately, steepling her hands and shifting into a cross-legged sitting position. She straightens her spine and regards us with her head tilted to the side. Isabela laughs and nods, before taking a swig of brandy.

 

"Attagirl, I'm game."

 

Damn, memo to me: do not teach Isabela any more modern words. With a shrug, I drag myself over to Merrill, shake the cards and divide them into three stacks of twenty cards for each of us.

 

"Wait, wait," Isabela says, slapping my hand away when I move to turn over the first card to begin the game. I raise my eyebrows. With a smirk, she tucks her feet underneath her legs.

 

"Anyone who plays a Desire Demon gets to make two people kiss," she says.

 

Oh god. Elsa leans forward, frowning thoughtfully.

 

"I'm not opposed to that," she says. "I used to play all the time."

 

Niana blinks and shrugs. "I used to work in a brothel," she says dryly.

 

We all gape at her, Bela downright cackling with glee.

 

Merrill shrugs, her lips pursed. "It's just 'girl stuff', right?" she asks. "I mean, as long as it's not serious, I'm fine with it." Sigh, her blush is adorable. Or maybe it's the brandy.

 

Making her blush, I mean. The brandy itself isn't adorable, just tasty.

 

I sigh and puff out my cheeks. They look at me expectantly. Fuck. I hate being a spoilsport. But two of us are Tranquil. On the other hand, they spoke up without prompting… and honestly, maybe a kissing game will be good for me. It’s just kissing, after all, and we’re all women. I hugged Anders without kicking him in the nuts, and kissing someone non-threatening might be a step on the way to recovery.

 


	12. Uninvited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small note on the sleepover/orgy poll: 
> 
> While writing the NSFW content, something felt off, but I wasn’t sure what it was. So I consulted my favorite place: r/Fanfiction, for feedback. One person insinuated I used Merethilda’s sexual assault as a shortcut to make her a dynamic, interesting character. I politely let them know that she already was a dynamic, interesting character and that my intention was to fully deal with the aftermath of her assault in a realistic, true-to-life way. 
> 
> Other commenters taught me that recovery happens in phases. By making Merethilda dive headfirst into an orgy, I’d be skipping a lot of important phases, despite her previous sexual activities. 
> 
> I hope any of you will speak up and yank my leash if I stray too far into fetishization of sexual assault, or go-to-tropes, or anything else that might make you feel uncomfortable. Be blunt with me, sometimes I’m just thick-headed and don’t pause to consider how my fiction might affect someone. Sometimes I’m stuck in my own pragmatic head, driven by logic and distanced from my own emotions.

**[Cullen's sentence - RESULTS](https://i.imgur.com/fvYhWnu.jpg) **

**[Full dragon form poll - RESULTS](https://i.imgur.com/N0i0kOL.jpg) **

**[Beginner dragon form poll - RESULTS](https://i.imgur.com/tlIs84G.jpg) **

 

* * *

 

**Day 21 (4th of Cloudreach) 11:03 PM**

 

Merrill, Isabela, Elsa, and Niana all regard me with expectant eyes. Shit. I pluck the bottle of brandy out of Bela's hands and take a big gulp to gather courage. I set it down, pick up my stack of twenty cards and shuffle through them. Templars go to the right side, accompanied by Chantry Sisters, Revered Mothers, and other Chantry figures. I have one Black Divine, which should make someone else lose all their Maleficarum, Apostates and such. Only Circle Mages are spared from that card.

Wicked Grace isn't your usual card game where the first person out of cards wins, oh no. The one with the strongest united deck wins. If someone plays a White Divine, the next player has to give all their Chantry figures and Circle Mages away. A Lord Seeker Card can 'summon' the next player's Templars (the irony) or make the player add them back to the pile (a.k.a. they were doing a shoddy job and got fired, heh.) Or just about anything they can make believable by spinning a fancy story.

"I'm in," I tell Isabela after I'm done arranging my deck. Bela holds out her fist for a fist pump and I oblige, rolling my eyes. Merrill smiles before flitting her eyes between her cards with a frown on her face, her bottom lip drawn between her teeth.

I have One Black Divine, five Templars, seven Circle Mages, three Maleficarum, one Grand Cleric, two Landless Knights, and one Abomination. Ugh. I'll either have to invoke the right of y'know on my own mages and sacrifice a Templar to get rid of the Abomination, or make up a plausible story about why my Landless Knights, Circle Mages, Maleficarum, and the Black Divine are in cahoots to get rid of my Chantry figures to make a deck of wildcards.

Storytelling is a big part of the game, which is why no-one wants to bet coin when Varric is playing. There's a reason why it's called 'Wicked _Grace_ '. You're not just playing against friends, you might just be playing against yourself, too.

I love it. It's the height of intrigue and frowned upon by the Chantry, for obvious reasons. Anything the Chantry hates is something I’ll love to death.

"Okay," Elsa says, drawing a card and laying it down next to the pile. "Here, a Dalish Second."

Isabela groans and sacrifices one of her Templars. "This guy is hunting your guy," she says. Merrill winces and plays a Dalish Hunter card.

"I'm poaching your lands," she tells Niana with a frown. "We don't do that. Not if there's enough game in the forest, anyway."

Yeah, it's full of prejudice.

Niana sighs and plays a Noble card and three Landless Knights. "They chased your Hunter off my Noble's lands."

There's a reason why Wicked Grace games can take entire nights. The longest game took three months, between five players who took breaks (y'know, to work, eat, sleep, live life and such) and stopped when one of them kicked the bucket in a mining accident. Eh. Usually, they're cut short when someone has had enough and bails on the rest, or there's a time limit.

How long would a bunch of Tranquil last? Forever? They wouldn't get bored, remain focused, and would probably play through Armageddon. Heh.

I put down my Grand Cleric and Black Divine card. "These two eloped. They knew each other from childhood and met again during an embassy trip in Tevinter," I say, looking up at the rest. Merrill gapes with wide eyes, Isabela cackles and almost falls over, Niana and Elsa just blink.

"Damn," I mutter, picking the cards back up and replacing them in my deck. Could've worked out if someone had supported me with a few Abominations or Apostates of their own, but I guess my story wasn’t plausible enough. As I said, games can take forever. I take a sip of brandy and almost spit it back out.

Oh my god, we're playing Dragons and Dungeons. Gah, we're playing a free-for-all Dragon Age card game. This is amazing. Whoever came up with this is a genius.

Elsa plays a Lord Seeker and I all but throw my Templars at her head, happy to get rid of them. Niana raises her eyebrows at me and Elsa rolls her eyes. Yeah, I know, I’m not the player with a turn right after Elsa, but Merrill and Isabela are too drunk to notice and this chance was perfect.

Thank God, now I can spin a story of how my Circle Mages banded together with my Maleficarum and the Abomination, offed my Grand Cleric and ran off to Tevinter under the sanction of my Black Divine, leaving me with... two Landless Knights.

I dubbed them the Hound and the Mountain.

Merrill makes a mess of her deck by committing accidental genocide, leaving her with an oddball band of a Werewolf, an Abomination, a Chantry Brother and an Orlesian Bard. She's out of the game unless someone takes pity on her and donates more Orlesians, werewolves or Chantry folks.

On my turn, they accept my unhinged double-tongued monologue about death and destruction by my Circle Mages and companions, leaving me with two Landless Knights. If I can get more Landless Knights somehow, they can band together and conquer someone's Noble, giving me land and Peasants. Twenty of those make a solid winning deck unless someone else has a greater deck.

In the end, Elsa wins with her deck of Seekers, Templars and Chantry people. Grumbling, we agree we owe her future favors and toss down our cards.

After three solid hours, no-one feels like another game, but we owe Isabela for forgetting all about the kissing game, so we divide cards again and pick up our decks.

**Day 21 (4th of Cloudreach) 02:00 AM**

“Ha! My Desire Demon ate your Peasant-” Isabela says, pointing at Elsa with a shit-eating grin on her face.

“And kitten gets to kiss our favorite Knight-Commander!”

“Bela, I'm the only Knight-Commander we have here, y’know that.” Everything is sort of blurry and wavy and my limbs are heavy. I sneak a glance at Merrill, who's peeking at me from between her cards, one green-brown eye looking my way. There's a blush on the visible part of her cheeks. Awww, that's damn cute.

“No, you're not, I have three of them right here.” With a mild smile, Elsa shows me her three Knight-Commander cards and I roll my eyes.

“Don't worry, sweet thing, you're prettier than they are,” Isabela says.

She smirks at Merrill. “Don't you think she's pretty, kitten?”

Merrill groans, hiding her face behind her cards. I laugh and untangle myself from my cross-legged sitting position and crawl-shuffle toward her, laughing when I zig-zag without meaning to. Crawling half into her lap, I pull the cards out of her hands with gentle fingers and put them down on the floor on her right side.

"Uhm..." Merrill mutters when my left hand brushes against her right knee. Her wide eyes dart from my eyes to my lips and back, her throat bobbing as she swallows and wets her lips.

I pause and blink a couple of times because my head is spinning from alcohol, and tilt my head to the side.

"You okay with this?" I ask, and Merrill nods despite her hesitation. Or maybe it's just shyness. Heaven knows I was shy the first time I kissed a girl (even though I was the one who asked despite being drunk. How's that for politeness).

With a smile, I cup her cheek with my right hand, caressing her earlobe with the tip of my thumb before resting it in the dip behind her ear. We lean forward together, open-mouthed and breathing against each other's lips. Her hot, quick breaths make my skin tingle with anticipation and I smile, tilting my head to the side. Our lips almost meet, and I pull back and lean to the other side. Merrill whimpers and follows, and I chuckle in amusement, brushing my lips over hers.

Damn, she's so soft and warm. My nose touches her heated cheek and she shivers because it's the one part of me that isn't toasty. I flick the tip of my tongue against her upper lip and her lips part, her right arm winding around my shoulders while she tangles her other hand into my hair. An involuntary moan is smothered by Merrill's lips, pressing against mine a little firmer.

I'm not running off screaming. We're just about sweating brandy and rum and Merrill tastes like licorice and fire, but it's okay. More than okay. I rake my fingers up from Merrill's knee to her thigh, smiling against her lips when her muscles spasm under my touch.

I’m not running off screaming until Merrill brushes my coat off my left shoulder. My heart gallops in my chest, my throat constricts as if squeezed by a fist, and I can’t breathe, no matter how much air I force into my lungs. My eyes fill with tears, but I don’t want to cry, I was done crying for today. If I cry and panic now, Karras wins another victory despite being dead. With every anxiety attack, he wins back a little ground.

I tear myself out of Merrill’s grasp and scramble backward until my back touches the bed and the solidity of it gives me something to cling to. My eyes shoot from Merrill to Isabela and my Tranquil.

Come on, girl. You’re safe here. None of them would ever dream of lifting a finger in your direction with the intention of hurting you. Not even Elsa and Niana, who wouldn’t feel a smidge of regret over it. All right, come on, hand on your lower belly. Good. Breathe in, feel your belly rise, breathe out, feel it fall. Again. And again. Feel the air pass through your nose on your inhales and feel it blow past your lips on the exhale. Close your eyes. Stare at the darkness behind your eyelids.

“Is it alright with you guys if I just, uhm, watch? Instead of participating?” I ask. Merrill’s eyes glint with tears and she sniffles, and I hold out my arms for her. She just about trips into my arms and I hold her, rubbing her back and stroking her hair. Well, as much as there is to stroke, anyway. Merrill’s hair is even shorter than mine. Focusing on Merrill is the perfect distraction from my own feelings. I meet Elsa’s eyes and she nods. Isabela worries her bottom lip and hands me her bottle of rum, which I knock back in one go. Shit, I should’ve probably shared it with Merrill. Oh well.

“Hey, Merrill, come on, you did nothing wrong, I just tried to go too quickly.” I muster my most reassuring tone and give her another squeeze. And look at that, I’m not stiffening in mortal peril. That’s better than this afternoon, anyway.

So Merrill and I watch huddled together with her head on my shoulder and my arm around her waist, and a blanket pulled tightly around ourselves. We share a bottle of brandy while Isabela, Elsa, and Niana pick up a new round of Wicked Grace and play for future favors again. When the first Desire Demon is played, I give Elsa a slight nod to let them know it’s fine, they can do whatever the hell they want to do.

“Come here, you, I’ve wanted to do this the entire night,” Isabela says, crawling toward Elsa on hands and knees (it looks ridiculous and Merrill and snicker like five-year-olds). She slings one arm around Elsa’s hips, twirls her hair around her other hand, and slants her lips over Elsa’s with a deep moan. They just about eat each other up, and coats and cloaks mysteriously fall off shoulders and bare breasts in the light of my glowstones.

It’s like watching live porn, especially when Niana shoulderdecks both of them to the ground and wriggles herself between them, hungrily kissing both of them. They end up smushed together, licking and kissing and writhing, and Merrill squeezes my hand and watches breathlessly with parted lips. 

No. No no no just no. Elsa is Tranquil. She doesn't have a choice in this. Isabela doesn't even ask any questions. She doesn't check to see if anything is okay. Niana is just doing what she did before she was Tranquil. God someone put a stop to this. My stomach churns and I swallow and hell no I'm not going to throw up again. 

This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong they're forcing her this is wrong why doesn't anyone stop them why don't I say something no-one stopped Karras but I can stop this now. I should- I can- But I can't- Can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe.

I close my eyes, focus on Merrill’s fingers in mine, on her breathing and my own breathing, and on the moans and gasps, without opening my eyes to see what is going on. Just hearing it is too much. 

 

It's too much. 

**Day 21 (4th of Cloudreach) 02:30 AM**

"Bellissimo, ladies, bel-lis-si- _mo_. Isabela, my friend, _this_ I did not expect when you told me you were going to a sleepover."

"Ah, uhm, hello?" Merrill offers, while I untangle myself from her grip and peek over her head. Antiva's worst assassin ever leans in my doorway, ankles crossed, arms crossed over his chest, fingers brushing over the arm that I can see. His pale blonde hair reaches his shoulders like a curtain, one pointed ear peeking out. His lips are pulled into a smug, amused smile, his head tilted back and his eyes narrowed in speculation, fastened on me. I think.

For all I know he might be devouring Niana or Merrill with his eyes, after all. Or, I don't know, wondering if tossing Merrill over his arms and stealing her is impolite or perfectly reasonable.

"Hello-o," Zevran says, his smirk widening. "Ohoho, no need to cover yourself, darling." He wiggles his eyebrows at Merrill, who was trying to cover herself with the blanket.

"Damn it, Zev!" Isabela says, throwing up her hands and shoving herself away from Elsa. I have no idea what those two had been doing while I just about drifted off into half-sleep, but damn.

Isabela's hair is askew and Elsa-Elsa has bright red scratches on her back. Fuck, I must've been out of it, or Elsa just took the  _ **abuse**_ without flinching. Zevran clacks his tongue and dangles a bottle of golden liquid in front of Isabela's face, a lazy smile on his lips.

"Yes yes, I wasn't supposed to show up, but where would little Elsa be without my massage oils? Tut Isabela, haven't you lost your claws yet?"

Isabela bares her teeth in a flippant smirk. "I keep them in a box, just for you."

Zevran clutches at his chest, tilting his head back. "Ah! But no longer, no? You've used them on Elsa, after all. My poor heart is wounded, Bela dear."

Asshole. Niana crawls on my bed and - I'm not kidding - falls asleep. I blink and shake my head, which makes the room spin and wobble. I giggle. Zevran chuckles before giving me a broad smile.

"When I heard about the infamous Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard, the terror of the Gallows, waking nightmare of the mages, I didn't expect to find..." he makes a gesture encompassing the entire room, his lips curling up into a smirk. "This."

First thought when I follow his hand and take in the room: lolwut.

There are half-emptied bottles everywhere, some of them laying in pools of their own contents. Bedrolls everywhere, vellum everywhere.

 

"Cleaning up isn't one of my priorities at the moment, sorry," I say dryly, raising my eyebrows at him.

 

"Sooo... who are _you_ , the uninvited guest who's obviously one of Isabela's oh so dangerous friends?"

 

Zevran smirks. "I am Zevran, Zev to my friends-"

 

I interrupt him angrily. "And let me guess, 'Fuck me, Zev' to friends with benefits, and 'Harder, Zev, harder,' to lovers?"

 

Merrill giggles. Isabela cackles. Zevran sighs and shakes his head.

 

"It seems my former reputation has superseded me. Alas, I am a married man now. Sometimes I'm even on a leash," he says, with a wink.

 

How can he think that's funny at all?

 

He drops to the ground behind Elsa, rubbing oil into his hands, before rubbing it into her bare back in soothing, soft strokes. I swallow down bile.

"I want a back rub, too," Isabela whines. Zevran snorts, shaking his head, crinkles around his eyes.

"Sure. I would never turn down the opportunity to give five pretty ladies a back rub, hm?" He winks at me and turns to Elsa.

"How did you like my present?"

"Strange..." Elsa drawls. Zevran scoffs.

"Of course. I stole it from Avernus, after all. I would be offended if it weren’t strange."

Oh dear.

Isabela frowns. "I thought you didn't like magic?" she complains.

Zevran chuckles. "Ghosts, Isabela, ghosts."

He raises his eyebrows. "Or are you jealous, perhaps?"

Isabela grumbles and turns her back on him, tipping back her head to drain a bottle of rum. Zevran laughs and pops the cork back on his bottle of oil, setting it aside, rubbing the excess into his own hands. He nods at Merrill.

"Now, do come here, little elven beauty, and I'll demonstrate the many charms that come with growing up in an Antivan whorehouse."

Merrill and I wince, Elsa blinks with indifference, and Isabela belches before collapsing in an unconscious, ungraceful heap. I drag myself toward her to make sure she's still breathing and yelp when she drags me into her arms, squishing me against her naked body, muttering something incoherent under her breath.

I try to detangle myself and find out Isabela is a lot stronger than she looks.

"Guess I'm out, guys. G'night. Zevran, behave." I grit it out through clenched teeth. Isabela let go let go let go don't you see I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't fucking breathe  _let me go please please please, please_. 

Zevran rolls his eyes while Merrill hangs against him, eyes closed while he kneads her shoulders.

 

Bela drools on my cheek. I squeeze my eyes shut and fight panic.

 


	13. Sloth

**Day 22 (5th of Cloudreach) 08:00 AM**

 

I didn't dream last night, which might be for the best. Drunken dreaming doesn't sound like it'd be fun. The sun wakes me up, blazing bright and hot against my eyelids. With a groan, I turn around, arms flailing until my fingers close around the nearest soft object, a pillow, which I slam on top of my head with an indignant huff.

 

Something pounds against my skull from the inside, my mouth tastes like a necromanced rat died on my tongue and the pressure behind my eyes makes me want to rip them out. Oof. Is it time to die, yet?

 

My bladder doesn't quite agree with dying, so I push myself up and shuffle toward my bathroom, narrowly dodging Merrill (who's sleeping safely wrapped in Zevran's arms- hm, questionable, that. I hope I won't have to drag a frothing, seething Hero of Ferelden off either of them in the near future) and Elsa. Elsa is scrunched up in a tight ball, a curtain of blond hair obscuring her face, her chest moving up and down at a slow, steady pace.

 

After peeing, I fill the wash basin with ice cold water and cram my head inside, closing my eyes in relief when the cold burn numbs my headache. Big mistake. When I get up again, I almost puke next to the toilet hole instead of in it. Ugh. You know, if they have plumbing for the bathtub, why don't they have plumbing for the damn toilet? Gah, logic. Can't argue logic.

 

With a scoff, I fill the bathtub with hot water and drop into it gracelessly, tipping my head back until my ears are submerged and pop. My head is unbearable, so I wash with small, careful movements and move my head as little as possible. Trying to keep my eyes closed as long as possible, my reach for shampoo relies more on luck than anything else, and I rub whatever I snatched into my scalp. It foams, at least there's that. As far as I know, there are no hair-removal products on my bathtub, so no worries.

 

Not that my coupe de disaster can get any worse.

 

Right, I got my coupe de disaster because…

 

It slams into me like a car driving at a 100 miles an hour slams into a wall, and I stifle a sob, trembling in the hot water. Damn it, I don’t want to think about this day and night. I hate waking up. I hate falling asleep. I hate it when my thighs brush together and it reminds me of his fingers on my skin.

 

My stomach shudders in protest. My hands prickle and sweat trickles down the back of my neck. My scalp itches. Oh damn, I really need to get started with some kind of therapy, even if I have to do it on my own. If I’d dreamt about the Fade, I could’ve used my one second of control to shout a quick explanation at my group of Sloth demons and maybe they would’ve helped me with EMDR or something. Or maybe I can ask Thrask to take me through the rhythmic, soothing motions of training and relive everything that happened to me at the same time, to take my mind off it?

 

Yeah, that sounds counterintuitive, but EMDR doesn’t exist for no reason.

 

My day isn’t going to get much better either, because the solution how to handle Cullen is at the forefront of my mind. Now to convince Thrask and Orsino...

 

**Day 22 (5th of Cloudreach) 01:00 PM**

 

“You want to do _what_ with Rutherford?!” Thrask asks, staring at me with wide-open eyes and a jaw that just about touches the ground. All color drains from his face, leaving his cheeks ashen and the skin around his nose almost yellowing. We’re in my office, me in my chair, Elsa and Niana at their desks, while Thrask, Orsino and Sebastian stand on the other side of my desk, blinking in confusion, his eyebrows tugged into a tight frown.

 

Orsino glances from one to the other to me, eyes wide and nearly bulging out of their sockets. With the way he’s moving now, his hair flits from left to right, which would’ve been funny if we hadn’t been in such a serious conversation.

 

I lay my hands on my desk and push myself out of my chair.

 

“You heard me,” I tell them, raising my eyebrows. “I want to Tranquilize him. Temporarily.”

 

Silence.

 

“That’s not possible. Tranquility is permanent,” Thrask protests, sputtering and nearly tripping over his words. At that, Orsino’s eyes snap to me, burning, almost looking straight through me. He closes his eyes for a few seconds and opens them, regarding me solemnly. I manage a weak smile and shake my head, glancing at Thrask.

 

“It is not. It’s a relatively simple procedure. Have you ever heard of Somniari or Dreamers?”

 

Thrask shakes his head, but Orsino nods. Sebastian drums his fingers against his bow, lips pursed.

 

“They were common during Arlathan times,” Orsino says, even though nobody asked him to explain. “Elven mages who can control every aspect of their dreams in the Fade.”

 

Thrask shrugs and looks at me questioningly.

 

“What does that have to do with Tranquility?”

 

Smiling, I scratch at the hole in my right hand. Orsino flinches and I stop, sticking my hands into my pockets instead. The holes aren’t going away anytime soon, but they’re small enough to be but a _small_ hindrance. Sometimes they’ll catch on something and it hurts, but they didn’t get infected despite having spent two weeks in a dark, filthy dungeon, a small mercy compared to everything else I’ve been through.

 

“Spirits and demons aren’t interested in a Tranquil because Tranquil are barely visible to them in the Fade. But if a being of the Fade touches a Tranquil soul, their Tranquility is reversed.” I shrug at their baffled expressions.

 

“The result is a non-mage, or a mage, _immune_ to mind control. _Immune_ to possession.” I say it with emphasis, and Thrask blinks. Orsino lets out a curious sound between a cough and a high-pitched laugh and sinks down into a chair.

 

“Immune!” Thrask says, gripping my desk and leaning forward. “You’re certain?”

 

I can’t keep the smirk off my face and nod like a bobblehead. “100%”

 

I’m not, but fuck that, they don’t need to know Pharamond got possessed during the process. Besides, all I have to do is drag Feynriel here by his round little ears and tell him to hop into Tranquil dreams and, I don’t know, get angry or something to summon a Rage Demon. Or pray to the Dalish Gods. Or the Maker.

 

I mean, I’d tell Cullen to just take the year off in solitude and pray until he keels over, but why the fuck would I waste so much time if I can just snap my fingers, summon a spirit and get it over with? Besides, my pet theory about mage Tranquil is that they only get so over-emotional because they’ve been detached from their emotions for so long, usually years. Hopefully, if it’s only a few minutes, they’ll be just fine and dandy.

 

My other theory is that they revert back to pre-Veil levels of emotions. Which is scary. There was this passage in a book in the Crossroads about a ‘friendly argument’ about what color to paint a ceiling or something? And the elves there drew blades and started killing each other. The footnote literally stated it was a friendly debate. If that’s what they call a friendly debate, I don’t want to know what their wars were like. Mass genocide, probably. Yikes. Why did I think removing the Veil was a good idea, again?

 

Thrask and Orsino exchange a glance. Orsino is smiling just as much as I am. If anything, he looks at me with adoration. I flinch and take a step back. Sorry, Orsino, but I can’t handle that right now. His smile fades and he casts his eyes downward. Ouch. My fingers itch to reach out to him, to tell him it’s fine, it’s not him, it’s me. But my legs are frozen in place, heavy and unyielding. Thrasks Templar armor gleams in the early afternoon sun. The sun reflects off the silver surface and- cherry red, fire and smoke burning in my throat, smoke stinging my eyes, brittle teeth turning into chunks.

 

“Tell Cullen, so he’ll know what’s going to happen. The whole story.” I hide my trembling hands behind my back, but sweat still drips down my forehead into my eyebrows. My throat is dry and the pressure behind my eyes intensifies.

 

“Use the Emergency Rite… or, I don’t know, put the Brand on the sole of his foot or something. Not anywhere visible, anyway.” I croak out, driving my nails into the palms of my hands. Thrask nods, as does Sebastian, and they leave together. Their voices drift away when the door closes behind them with a soft click.

 

Orsino looks at me with a frown on his face and pursed lips. He folds his hands behind his back, then lets them hang loosely at his sides, only to brush over his robes the next second. His eyes are anywhere but on me.

 

He swallows heavily and clears his throat. “Meredith, ah, how are you… no, that’s a stupid question. Forgive me.”

 

He tilts his head to the side like a forlorn puppy, his frown smoothing and his eyes finally meeting mine. His form blurs when tears fill my eyes and I squeeze them shut, shaking my head and breathing out through my nose in short bursts.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I choke out. “I never want to talk about it again. I can’t stop thinking about it. In the morning, when I woke up, I… I forgot, I think?”

 

I draw in a big breath through my mouth, even though it feels like nothing reaches my lungs. “But then it all came back and I just… the memories are… I don’t know how to… oh for fuck’s sake, give me a pot or something _now_.”

 

I clutch my stomach, doubling over, and gag. Orsino curses and lunges to the other side of the room, where he grabs some kind of container and holds it under my chin. I practically projectile-vomit into it, shuddering at the splattering sound it makes. The scent of acid burns in my nose and my eyes and I heave again and again even though there’s nothing left to throw up.

 

“Heh, uhm, sorry about that,” I croak out. Orsino looks a little green himself, and Elsa slips out from behind her desk, takes the container without a word, and walks out of my office. Damn, they’re already getting used to this. That’s awful.

 

Niana grabs a decanter of water and pours two glasses, shoving one into my hands and offering the other to Orsino. I hold the glass against my forehead for a minute to rub the condense on my skin. The water is ice cold and soothing. My head still throbs, but much less than before, a small mercy in this absolute clusterfuck. I gulp it down and place the empty glass on my desk.

 

I clear my throat, pushing my lips together in an apologetic smile. “As you can see, I’m not doing so well,” I mutter, lifting my shoulders into a shrug.

 

Orsino sighs shifts his weight and covers his eyes with his hand. I can see his eyelashes brush against his hand as he blinks rapidly. Oh god please don’t start crying. His face reddens and he hunches forward and yeah, he’s losing the battle. He’s definitely going to burst into tears in the middle of my office. Shit.

 

“Sit down, Orsino. Just… sit down and… er… let it all out? God, I’m bad at this,” I laugh despite myself. “Sorry, I suck at comforting people. I tried to hug an angry person once, it didn’t end that well.”

 

Orsino snorts and drops down into the chair, hand still over his eyes. He’s trying to take deep breaths and failing miserably.

 

“Look, you shouldn’t feel guilty. I was stupid. I’m the one who left on my own. Not that no woman should be able to be alone in Kirkwall without having to fear for her life, but that’s the way things are right now.” I’m blabbering, but who the hell cares. Neither Orsino nor Niana stops me, anyway.

 

“And after I saw Merrill and she healed my wounds, I should’ve just headed right back to the Gallows instead of going to see Anders. And when Anders asked me about- er, when he needed help with something, I should’ve come here for back-up. Or I should’ve grabbed the nearest beggar by the scruff and sent him to get back-up if I really hadn’t wanted to let Anders go alone. Uuuugh I’m an idiot.” I facepalm and shake my head. Honestly, it’s so simple. There are a million things I could’ve done differently.

 

Could’ve-Would’ve-Should’ve is what my English teacher always used to say? Or was it Would’ve-Could’ve-Should’ve? Ugh, you get my drift, whatever.

 

“My point is… you’re not responsible for what happened. You didn’t know-”

 

“I thought you were dead,” he interrupts. He slaps his hand down on my desk and meets my eyes, tears glinting in his. “And I… didn’t take it well. I… Well. I think you know why.”

 

Yeah, I think I do. And of course, that’s just the moment when Stannard appears at my left side, rolling her eyes at him. She’s in Templar armor again, strong and healthy and mercifully incorporeal. With narrowed eyes, she scowls at Orsino.

 

“Pathetic mage,” she says, her voice as cold as the North Pole. With a scoff, she tilts her head the side and studies him.

 

“He _still_ feels that damn affection for me,” she says, folding her hands over her chest and jutting out her chin.

 

“Did you know he tried to give me flowers and chocolates once?” she asks. I look at her through my eyelashes. Orsino lets out a heavy sigh and looks at his hands, clasped together on my desk. He’s waiting for some kind of reaction, I guess. But it’s not like I’m going to talk to him with _her_ here.

 

Stannard laughs in contempt. “I threw them at his head. Should’ve kept the chocolate, though. I think he gave them to the apprentices. They don’t deserve any kindness. Give them a hand and they take your arm. Give them a sliver of freedom and they feel entitled to more, _demand_ more.”

 

I grit my teeth together. Breathe in, 1. Breathe out, 2. Breathe in, 3. Breathe out, 4. Breathe in, 5. Five is a nice number. I used to be Runner Five in a runner app called Zombie’s Run. It was set in the apocalypse and had an amazing story. Amazing voice actors, too. What I wouldn’t give to be chased by a bunch of virtual zombies again. I even slogged through inches of snow to keep the little virtual township happy.

 

Now I have a Free Marcher city to keep happy. And not by chucking tennis balls with spikes at a bunch of the undead. This time I have to navigate politics to make lives better. Lives belonging to real people. People with dreams, hopes, wishes, feelings.

 

“Blah blah blah dramatic monologue about filthy mages blah blah blah,” Stannard says, but I’ve stopped paying attention.

 

With a sigh, I close my eyes and open them again. I meet Orsino’s eyes. The shame I find there, combined with concern and _affection_ kicks me in the gut. Averting my eyes, I search for the right words. Finally, I clear my throat, roll my eyes at myself and force my lips to form words.

 

“I want a list,” I tell him, my voice steady and clear, albeit soft. “A list of every Templar who has ever touched a mage against their will, or threatened a mage, or blackmailed a mage, or physically or emotionally harmed a mage. Ask your apprentices. Eavesdrop. Ask the Tranquil what they have seen. Ask them to step into the shadows and stand watch. Tell them to interfere and slap any Templars who overstep in irons.” I clench my hands into fists and breathe out through my nose, my nostrils flaring. The demand for justice, to need to kill, to rip and tear and shred and the lust for blood burns in my veins.

 

What would it be like, to be a mage? To be able to toss a fireball at anyone who tried to hurt me? To electrocute them to death like they’re nothing? To sweep them up into a crushing prison spell and watch them get crushed to death? What would it be like to turn into a beast with claws and fangs? To rip, tear and shred, to watch them tremble before my eyes?

 

Stannard laughs, a wicked edge to her voice. “Feel that? That’s _hunger_. You want the power. You revel in it. Listen to me, and we can overthrow the Chantry together.”

 

The Chantry. Always the Chantry. The fuck do I care about a bunch of priests and brothers? It’s the Seekers and the Templars that need to burn to cinders. One by one, until there’s nothing left of them but a pile of ash.

 

Orsino rises out of his seat with elven graze, his jaw set in determination. He lifts his eyes to me and nods once. “As you wish, Knight-Commander.” He knows what I’m going to do, doesn’t he?

 

“My name is Meredith!” I shout after him before the door closes fully.

 

He stops it with a hand and leans through the crack. “I will see it done, _Meredith_.” He says my name with conviction, with determination, with strength. If only I could absorb that strength and make it my own. I’d be whole again. But I can’t. It’s just a tone and a name that isn’t even my own, and the moment snaps like an elastic when he nods and closes the door behind him.

 

I sigh, glare at Stannard, grab my glass and toss it at her head. It sails through her and shatters into pieces against the wall, but she’s gone. Mission accomplished.

 

“Here, throw this as well,” Niana says, holding out the decanter. Only a small layer of water covers the bottom.

 

Fuck this. “Godverdomme!” I shout, throwing the decanter against the wall. A few small pieces of glass miss me by a hair's’ breadth. “God- _ver_ -domme! Goddamnit!”

 

Seething, I glare at the spot where Stannard was. “Hypocriete kuttekop! Bitch! Cunt! Ugh!”

 

Ah, this feels good. I should call her a hypocritical cunt-face more often. Especially in her … cunt-face. Take that, you stupid bitch. Worthless piece of trash.

 

Niana regards me with her dark eyes. “If you want, Elsa and I can stand guard in the Gallows to spot _those_ Templars. No-one notices us. Elsa is being trained by Zevran, and I… know my way around poison.” She shrugs.

 

“Well, that’s reassuring,” I mutter.

 

Niana rolls her eyes. “You have nothing to fear from me. The people who try to poison you should be afraid.”

 

“Wait, has anyone ever tried? To poison me, I mean?” I ask. I’d hope not, but you never know.

 

Niana raises her eyebrows. “You mean, in the four days I’ve worked for you? No, they have not.”

 

Right. Sometimes I forget I’ve only known her for a short time.

 

I sigh, staring at my fingernails for a second. There’s hook at the right side of my thumb. I should really file them back in order, but my duties don’t allow for manicures. Oh, who am I kidding? I don’t give myself time for a manicure. Maybe I should. Maybe Elsa or Niana could do it for me. It’d be nice.

 

Looking up at Niana, I draw in a deep breath. “Would you want to have your Tranquility reversed?” I ask.

 

She frowns, tilts her head to the side, eyes cast to the ceiling. “At the moment, no. I’d rather stay as I am. In the future? Perhaps. Who knows?”

 

“Oh,” I say because I honestly expected a resounding ‘yes please, let’s get started now’.

 

Her lips quirk up into a smile. “It has its benefits. I’m never bored. I can lie down and fall asleep within seconds. I used to be snappy and quickly frustrated at just about anything that could irritate a person. Now, if someone asks me to do something for them, I’m less inclined to bite their heads off.”

 

Laughing, I scratch at my scalp. “Yeah, I know the feeling. Sometimes I want to bite people’s heads off, too.”

 

**Day 22 (5th of Cloudreach) 02:00 PM**

 

The lanterns at the Clinic aren’t lit, so I knock on the door thrice. Not that Anders and I decided on a signal of some sort. It’s just… y’know, the Dutch give a person three kisses on the cheek at birthday parties (which are usually celebrated in the world’s most boring circle of chairs, with cake, blocks of cheese and sausage and that’s it. If you’re very lucky, the background music will be above the hearing threshold. Otherwise, a bad joke will result in awkward silence. Oh, and we also congratulate everyone present with the birthday of their XYZ. ‘Congratulations with your neighbor/aunt/uncle/niece/fourth-removed-cousin/the great-great-great-whatever-he-is-to-you, does anyone even know? Quick, someone grab the family tree to find out.’ Ugh.)

 

“How do Thedosians celebrate their birthdays?” I ask when Anders has unlocked all the bolts and opened the door, just about hanging in the doorway. His hair looks like it was styled with an airplane engine, his eyes are half-lidded and drooping. He blinks at me, yawns, and holds the door open, shuffling back into the Clinic.

 

“Er,” he says, stifling another yawn. He unfastens and re-fastens the cloth around his robes. “Your average farmer people usually just… spend the evening in front of the fireplace exchanging embarrassing stories if it’s winter, and work in the fields when it’s summer. At least, that’s what Hawke told me when I asked her about it.”

 

With a shrug, he drops himself on top of a random cot, his arms hanging off the sides and one leg dangling off.

 

I laugh. “You’re about to pass out, aren’t you?”

 

With his eyes closed, he mutters a “Hm. Maybe.” and yawns again.

 

“You realize it’s afternoon?” I ask with my hands on my hips.

 

Anders cracks on eye open and looks at me. “Sure. So?”

 

With a scoff, I shake my head and toe open the door leading to the tiny kitchen in the Clinic. “I’ll make some tea. Wake you up in thirty minutes?”

 

A muffled groan drifts into the kitchen. “Make it an hour and we have a deal.”

 

With a smile, I grab a kettle, arrange kindling on the stove and tap a fire rune. Embers spark and a small contained fire quickly licks at the wood. With a few adjustments, a fire rune could maybe be used as induction.

 

“Deal,” I call over my shoulder, but I don’t think he’s heard me. Oh well, more tea for me. At least Thedas doesn’t have the God-forsaken Earl Grey concoction everyone used to give me when I asked for tea. Yuck. I used to joke about liking tea with my sugar, anyway. Anything with less than two sugar cubes was undrinkable to me.

 

Thedosian tea is earthy and fragrant. This blend (just, y’know, what I scooped out of a glass bottle that _didn’t_ have a skull and crossbones on it) has mint and lavender and just a slight hint of I-don’t-want-to-know-what-died. I lean against the ramshackle cupboard, with my hands wrapped around the chipped mug. Funny how my employer used to tick down fifty euros for handcrafted coffee and tea cups while here in Thedas, there’s nothing else. No factory produced anything.

 

Well, there’s the Tranquil. Put rows of them in a big room and you have your factory, I guess. I down my tea and put the cup back on the cupboard, before dragging my finger over its surface. Ew. Dust. And muck. There’s a bucket right next to the door that looks like it’s used for cleaning (if it hadn’t been covered in a layer of dust, anyway) so I grab it and pour the remaining tea in it. Steam billows up and I inhale deeply before dropping a sliver of soap into it, stirring it around with a brush until it foams.

 

Time to scrub. An hour should be enough to clean the floors, maybe the walls, and I might be able to squeeze in ten minutes to fix his paperwork storage, too. Here’s where my education for accountancy comes in handy. Such irony. I roll my eyes, throw water on the floor, and start scrubbing in circles.

 

Before enlightenment, carry wood and chop water. After enlightenment, chop wood and carry water. In the middle, drink tea and scrub floors. Heh.

 

I hum ‘Oh Grey Warden’ under my breath. Hey, it’s appropriate. Not that I remember every line, but the chorus is burned into my mind.

 

Crap, there’s so much I have to do. I should make a list. With columns. One for Grey Warden stuff, with Corypheus at the top. One for Elven stuff, with Solas at the top. One for Templar stuff, with… Ah, I don’t know, the Divine at the top? Seeker stuff with Seeker Lambert at the top. Shit, I need to make sure he’s more dead. How much would Zevran ask for murdering a guy like that? Hm… I don’t want to put Zev in danger, either, and Lambert is surrounded by trained Seekers. No, it’s too risky to send Zev. I’d be better off hiring an entire cell of Antivan Crows.

 

Ah, I forgot Kirkwall stuff. The Qunari, the Viscount and everything in between. The elves need better housing and better jobs, Darktown is in dire need of a renovation, and the Undercity needs to be dealt with, too. Not to mention the literal river of blood that runs underneath the city’s foundation. Maybe I should make that public knowledge so the blood mages can tap into that, instead of bleeding out victims.

 

Yeah, and then we’ll all be dead before sundown.

 

By the end of my impromptu cleaning session, my hands are red from the heat, the floors are less icky and the kitchen looks like a tornado with Compulsive Cleaning Disorder whirled through it. I clean my hands on a stained towel and promptly fill another bucket with hot water and soap to give those a hand wash. Might as well gather up the dirty rags and clean those as well, while I’m at it. The Clinic is empty, anyway. I hope it’s not empty because everyone died.

 

**Day 22 (5th of Cloudreach) 04:00 PM**

 

 

Surrounded by drying cloth on every available surface, I perforate the last of Anders’s papers and tap them into a sneak stack in a folder. Who knew Thedas had folders like that? One of the devs must’ve been neurotic about keeping files in order. Thank you, whoever you are. You’ve just saved lives. I put the last folder on top of five other ones on a wobbly stack, and pick up the next set of documents. On the top reads

 

‘Mage Rights Manifesto’. My heart picks up in speed and my hands tremble when I flip it open to a random page.

 

 

 

> "The demon they made me face took the shape of a great cat. As we battled, it spoke in my mind. It told me that I would eventually stumble, and then it would pounce."

 

Underneath is a scribble of a giant cat, filling the rest of the entire page. At least I hope it’s a cat and not a striped blob with fangs growing out of its eyes.

 

He’s not much of an artist, I guess. My fingers brush over the cat and before I know it, I have an empty page in my hand, a pencil, and start drawing something that could take out a big cat. Big, round feet, fat belly, giant, flapping ears, tusks, a trunk. Yep, it’s an elephant all right. Good thing, too, because I don’t have any colors to color it in with. It might not be detailed, but the tusks are sharp and the trunk is raised in an angry trumpet. Behind the one elephant, I draw others, smaller ones, in the background, really just a bunch of outlines, but still there as back-up.

 

Anders is still snoring quietly on the cot, one hand thrown over his eyes, the other arm hanging off the side. I snort to myself, shake my head and turn back to my sketch. For shits and giggles, I add a few stick-figures with Templar armor. I make them flail around between the lion and the elephant and write ‘AAAAAAAH WE’RE SO DEAD HALP’ above them. Hm, needs more dead people. I draw a skeleton stick-figure in a corner. Heh. There, motivational poster: done.

 

“That one looks like Thrask,” a slightly echoing voice comments from right behind me.

 

“Holy mother of Mary!” I shout, jumping up from my seat and bumping my head against Anders’s chin. With an ‘oof’, he stumbles back, rubbing his chin. Jesus Christ, five seconds ago he was asleep and now he teleported at my back? And here I thought only Varric could do that, with the right ability upgrades. Damn.

 

“You should’ve been born a rogue,” I say with a laugh until I meet Fade-blue eyes instead of warm amber ones. My joints lock, my arms cramp up, my belly pulls together tightly. My jaw clenches to the point of locking in place and I grind my teeth together to suppress the initial impulse of smite and kill.

 

Anders- no, Justice frowns and purses his lips, tilting his head to the side. “My previous vessel was a rogue. I might have retained some of his skills.”

 

I tuck in my chin and frown. “Er, no, Kristoff was a warrior. A Spirit Warrior, actually.”

 

Justice blinks and rubs his lips together. Damn, the gesture makes him look so normal. I stare at his hands, the hands that held me against a wall and squeezed my throat until my lungs screamed and I nearly lost consciousness. He follows my eyes, curls and uncurls his hands and clasps them behind his back.

 

“Ah, yes, you are correct. You are a warrior as well, yes?” he asks, and I nod.

 

I shrug. “Think so. I mean, if I’d had my original body I might’ve been a rogue. My co-workers always joked they had to put a collar with a bell on me because I always snuck up on them.”

 

Justice frowns. “And… you did this often? Sneak up on your co-workers and scare them? Forgive me, I do not understand why you would do this.”

 

Snorting, I shake my head and roll my eyes. “No, it wasn’t intentional. God, no. I just moved silently. Maybe it was because I wore shoes that almost made me feel like I was walking barefoot.”

 

He blinks. “Why not just walk barefoot?”

 

“Doubt my boss would’ve let me.”

 

With a shrug, I sign my name underneath my drawing and flip it around. Justice reaches out for it and I let him pull it out of my hand. With a frown of concentration, he scrutinizes it.

 

“Grethilda?” he asks. “Is that your real name?”

 

My heart skips a beat, only to hammer against my chest the next. _Shit_. I gape at him with my jaw on the floor and wide eyes. After a few seconds, I take a gulp of lukewarm tea and slump my shoulders.

 

“Ah… Yeah, it is. Not the best name, but hey, that’s me. And uhm, people called me Grethil for short, which wasn’t any better, but at least it wasn’t worse either. Please don’t tell Anders. I don’t want any slip-ups.” I ramble it all out after putting down my cup and gulp in a big breath afterward.

 

Justice nods once and lays the page on the desk. He folds the bottom few inches and tears it off in precise movements. It’s almost a straight tear, save for a few wobbly inches here and there. He sets it on fire with little ado, and the smoke makes me cough.

 

“My apologies. Grethilda.” He says it like it’s a secret we share. Er, I guess it is. Weird. Hearing my name again is unheimlich. Warmth spreads through my belly and I close my eyes for a few seconds, forcing back tears.

 

Something warm hovers inches from my left cheek, and I open my eyes. Justice’s blue eyes are on me, his hand a hair’s breadth away from my face, hovering there. With a scoff, I breach the remaining inch and lean into his hand, closing my eyes. Callous prickles on my skin.

 

“Uh… did I interrupt a private moment or something? Because if so, er, sorry?” Anders asks, and my eyes shoot open. His eyes are wide, his lips pressed together and pulled up in an incredulous uncertain smile, and I burst into laughter. I wrap my hand around his wrist and lower his arm.

 

“It was nothing,” I say, releasing his hand. Raising my eyebrows, I shove the drawing into his hands. “I was drawing this and got a bit lost in thought and Justice, er, tried to comfort me, I guess?”

 

Anders blinks, eyes flitting down at my drawing. His lips pull into a smirk. “This is great. You read it, didn’t you?”

 

He doesn’t sound offended, so that’s a win.

 

“Yeah, I did. That part, anyway. I just grabbed a piece of paper and started drawing right after. Y’know, to make up for that thing that’s supposed to look like a cat?”

 

Anders narrows his eyes and pouts, folding his hands over his chest.

 

“I’m devastated. My wounded heart won’t live through this,” he says melodramatically.

 

“Awww, I almost feel sorry for you,” I tease him. “Almost.”

 

Anders rolls his eyes, takes a look around and blinks. His face goes blank.

 

“Did an army of Tranquil waltz through and clean up while I was asleep?”

 

I click my tongue against the back of my teeth and give him a pointed look.

 

“No, this was all me. You’re. Welcome.”

 

He straightens, brushes a hand through his hair and raises his eyebrows, looking up at me apologetically. “I’m sorry. Thank you for cleaning my Clinic. But you didn’t have to.”

 

Laughing, I punch his arm. He winces. Oops. “I was bored, saw the mess, and I’m the kind of person who just can’t sit down and do nothing after that.”

 

I shrug. “So I decided to clean up. And then I saw paperwork everywhere and decided that had to end. So I gathered it all up, went through it - screw confidentiality - and sorted them. Your patients all have their own folder now, as far as I could put them together.”

 

Anders beams. “You did all that in an hour? Thank you. Justice never gives me time to clean.”

 

I growl under my breath and point my finger at his chest. “Damn you, Justice. Give the man a break. I swear I’ll... er.. give you latrine duty in the Gallows if you don’t ease up.”

 

With a laugh, Anders leans against his desk, ankles crossed and arms folded over his chest. “Oh no, he’s shuddering in a corner of my mind,” he says with a crooked smile. I shake my head.

 

“Anyway, I actually came to check up on Ser Leon. But I guess he’s not here?”

 

Anders straightens and shrugs. “He’s in the back. Hasn’t woken up since they found him. Have to give it to him, he hasn’t kicked the bucket, either. I give him elfroot potions and other disgusting drinks made from plants and he just swallows it all down like it’s nothing.”

 

Huh. Weird. He gestures for me and I follow him to the back, where he pulls a key out of a pocket in his robe and unlocks a door. With a loud creak, the door opens, revealing a dusty, narrow room with a small barred window. It’s more of a slit, really, but it lets in light.

 

Ser Leon hasn’t changed a bit since I last saw him, terrified as he was. He’s still pale, but that’s probably because he hasn’t seen the sun in weeks. His head is still shaved, he still has the beard. He hasn’t lost any weight by the looks of it. Or gained any, despite being bedridden and not moving an inch. I reach out and squeeze his arm. Feels like he hasn’t lost any muscle mass, either.

 

I raise my eyebrows at Anders. “If you’re feeding him, does he… y’know?”

 

Anders gives a sardonic smile. “Does it come out at the other end? Yes, it does. Two Chantry Brothers from the hospice come by to help me clean him every day.”

 

With parted lips, I gape at him. “And you just let them in like you’re all friends?”

 

He scoffs and shrugs. “Not exactly like that. I mean, I don’t slap them on the shoulder and ask them how their days have been.”

 

He intertwines his fingers and cracks his knuckles, then stretches his hands over his head until his shoulders pop.

 

“Thrask sanctioned me. I’m officially on your payroll, now. Actually… er… he kind of distributed your money between me, Niana and Elsa, since we were closest to you.” Anders smiles sheepishly, a blush creeping up his cheeks.

 

What. I spend four days hanging around three people and Thrask decides to go ahead and give them all my money after I ‘die’? That warrants a stern talking to, yes sir.

 

I clamp my hand on my mouth to stifle a laugh. “Well. It’s not like I would’ve had it any other way..”

 

“Keep the money,” I say when he opens his mouth. “Use it to make people better.”

 

He doesn’t comment other than nodding at me, and I turn back to Ser Leon. Young Templar. Whatever. Do the Chantry Brothers really take time daily to shave his head bald in exactly the same way it was before? I remember his head vividly. Every little hair, actually.

 

Wait. Wait a minute.

 

“Anders,” I say quietly. “I think he did die when you zapped him. I think he’s a Sloth Demon.”

 

He probably came with me. Damn. What do I do about him now?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	14. Chant

**Poll results**

**Merethilda**

[ **Audacity's statue poll** ](https://i.imgur.com/LgAy2kY.jpg)

[ **If Merethilda ever gets a Mabari, what does she name it?** ](https://i.imgur.com/8PBi4A3.jpg)

[ **During which act 2 quest does Merethilda achieve her beginner dragon form?** ](https://i.imgur.com/dMzolkE.jpg)

[ **During which Act 3 quest does Merethilda achieve her full dragon form?** ](https://i.imgur.com/PfCLG2i.jpg)

**Mahariel**

[ **Nature of the Beast** ](https://i.imgur.com/NWtuZxY.jpg)

[ **Orzammar** ](https://i.imgur.com/6mmzN8h.jpg)

[ **Broken Circle** ](https://i.imgur.com/ZeXzT83.jpg)

[ **Sacred Ashes** ](https://i.imgur.com/2PwJnFN.jpg)

[ **Redcliffe** ](https://i.imgur.com/HVl2ZtH.jpg)

[ **Connor** ](https://i.imgur.com/NJ3QI22.jpg)

**Love interests**

[ **A love interest for Anders** ](https://i.imgur.com/SY2Vq8V.jpg)

[ **A love interest for Alistair** ](https://i.imgur.com/IR1R745.jpg)

[ **A love interest for Bethany** ](https://i.imgur.com/PlehaDA.jpg)

[ **A love interest for Carver** ](https://i.imgur.com/50o74Ya.jpg)

[ **A love interest for Fenris** ](https://i.imgur.com/a7wvfO5.jpg)

[ **A love interest for Isabela**](https://i.imgur.com/drUhA5U.jpg)

* * *

 

 

Anders tilts his head with narrowed eyes and a creased brow, staring at me. “He’s a what?”

 

With a laugh, I look down at the sleeping Sloth demon. I shrug.

 

“A Sloth demon,” I say.

 

“And how exactly did he get here? You know, did he waltz right through the Veil and hop in?” Anders asks with raised eyebrows, his hands on his hips, clicking his tongue.

 

I bend over and gently shake Ser Leon’s shoulder. He mutters something incoherent, rolls around and pulls his blankets around himself. It was worth a shot. I glance at Anders over my shoulder.

 

“I haven’t told you about my Fade dreams, have I?”

 

Anders, who was on his way to the kitchen, stops dead in his tracks and whirls around. “What Fade dreams?” he asks, his brow creased.

 

I shrug and give Ser Leon a harder shake. He swats my hand away, grabs his pillow and slams it over his eyes.

 

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” I say, grabbing the blanket and dragging it off him. Grand, he’s naked. Seriously? I narrow my eyes and shake my head at Anders in disapproval. Anders gives a side-eyed glance, his lips pressed together, corners tugged upwards.

 

“It’s easier to clean him when we don’t have to peel filthy clothes off him,” he offers lamely. With a snort, I wrangle the pillow out of Leon’s hands and chuck it at Anders’s head. He side-steps it with a triumphant smirk, only for the blanket to hit him in the face. Heh. Gotcha.

 

“Get up!” I snap at Leon, shaking him _again_.

 

Once, I asked my stepfather to wake me up at six AM, because he’d get up at the same time. The first thing I noticed was someone shaking me, my muscles limp and unresponsive. I realized he’d been calling my name. Apparently, he’d tried waking me up by calling my name, first, then shaking my shoulder. When that didn’t work, he tried both, getting worried because I wasn’t waking up.

 

I sleep like the dead.

 

Ser Leon sleeps like a deceased deaf, mute and blind person. Who’s also dead.

 

“How old is he, anyway?” I ask Anders, peering at Leon’s youthful face. No wrinkles, no hard lines. It’s probably the shaved head making him look older.

 

Anders shrugs. “Probably… fifteen? Sixteen? Maaaybe seventeen.”

 

“Please tell me I did not order a fifteen-year-old boy to shoot his comrades in arms,” I tell Anders.

 

“Please tell me I did not order a fifteen-year-old boy to shoot his superior in his cock. Please tell me I did not kill his superior in front of his eyes. And please, _please_ tell me a fifteen-year-old boy did not witness an innocent getting raped, not lifting a finger to stop it!” By the end, I’m throwing my hands in the air, my lips twisted into a scowl, my eyes narrowed and wild, my fingers curled into claws.

 

Helpless, Anders shrugs with his hands turned to the ceiling. Then he blinks.

 

“You told him to shoot Alrik in his cock? Damn woman, remind me to never make you angry.”

 

I give him a withering look. “Try not to rape anyone, and you should be fine.”

 

His smile fades and he looks down at the floor with a sigh.

 

“Anyway,” I say, crouching next to Leon’s cot and trying to roll him over. On my own, it’s never going to work, and I look up at Anders, lips pressed together. I widen my eyes and jut my chin out to Leon.

 

“A little help would be nice, y’know,” I mutter. Anders clears his throat, flicks his hand to the left, and Leon is rolled over by the power of the Force.

 

May the Force be with you. Hehe. Couldn’t help myself.

 

The fucker is still snoring. I’m going to dunk his head in a bucket of ice water.

 

“I’m not a mage,” I say. Obviously. “So I’m not really aware I’m dreaming. I can’t control anything. Can’t change anything or affect anything around me. Made friends with a pack, a mob, a group, a pile? Of Sloth Demons.”

 

Anders gapes at me. “You made friends with a… pile… of Sloth Demons?” he asks, blinking. “Do you have a death wish?!”

 

With wide eyes, I hold up my hands. “Uhm, hellooo, I can’t control my own body when I’m dreaming. I did say that, didn’t I?”

 

Anders sighs, his shoulders slumping, a slight smile on his lips. “Yeah, you did. It's just… I'm always aware. Of dreaming, I mean.”

 

He scratches the stubble on his chin. “Have been since I was a child. My Harrowing was…”

 

“A harrowing experience,” I finish dryly.

 

Anders snorts. “Yeah. Speaking of Harrowings, I haven't seen more Tranquil in the Gallows, so… that's good.”

 

I shrug, giving Leon one last good shove. He flops off the bed and lands on the floor. Snoring. My God, he’s going to sleep until he dies, isn’t he?

 

I look back up at Anders. “I canceled all Harrowings until I figure out an alternative.” I press my lips together, pressing on the inside with my teeth. “I’m thinking a Harrowing with a senior enchanter as supervision, without Templars ready to cut off heads on the other side.”

 

Anders lets out an exasperated sigh, his eyes narrowed. Hands on his hips, he asks: “How about no more Harrowings _at all_? Why should we be punished for attracting spirits and demons to us when we don’t have a choice in it?”

 

Holding up my hands, I tilt my head to the side and give him a pointed look. His expression smooths out into blankness, his eyes hardening. He squares his shoulders and breaths out sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring.

 

“Oh, so that’s what this is about, isn’t it? I’m your example of why mages should prove they’re safe?”

 

“Anders, I didn’t mean…” He narrows his eyes and points at the door, his brow creased into a frown.

 

“Get out,” he says, his voice cold and hard.

 

Wincing, I glance at from Ser Leon, who sleeps sprawled out on the floor next to the cot, and back at Anders.

 

I wring my hands together and worry the inside of my right cheek. “At least let me explain my idea of-”

 

“No,” he says, blue energy swirling around his shoulders and fingers. His thumb twitches, a muscle in his cheek twitches, his jaw sets.

 

“Get out, mortal,” he says, his voice echoing slightly. “I don’t want to see you here, anymore. All you do is pull and push, and Anders does not want your attention anymore. All you do is give him hope and snatch it out from under his nose.”

 

I close my eyes, cover my face with my hands, rub my eyes and blow out a breath. Anders’s eyes are Fade blue when I look up, and unyielding. His chin is held high.

 

Looking down at my boots, I nod and clear my throat. “Okay,” I say, holding back tears.

 

Justice’s eyes are calm and cold when I look back up, blinking back tears. “Fine, Justice. I’ll… I’ll send Alistair or Elsa to check up on Leon. Ah. Please don’t hurt him. Promise me that, and I’ll stay away. Please.”

 

He nods, and I squeeze my eyes shut and curl my hands into fists. A heaviness settles into my stomach and bile burns in the back of my throat. Keeping my eyes down, I stride past Justice and open the front door.

 

Pausing, I graze my fingers over the grainy wooden surface. “Goodbye, Justice. Anders. I’m-”

 

“Spare me your apologies, mortal, and just leave.”

 

Yeah, okay. Fuck me and my need for comfort, right? Apparently, my mental state isn’t worth a dime.

 

I choke back a sob, step over the threshold into the street and slam the door behind me. I didn’t mean to, but it feels damn satisfying to feel it tremble underneath my fingers.

 

If he’d let me finish, I would’ve explained to him that I wanted to send an apprentice into the Fade, guided by a senior Enchanter, to find a spirit to receive a word of wisdom, nothing more. No fighting, no hostility, no threats. No time limit, either.

 

I guess I’ll have to do it on my own.

 

**Day 22 (5th of Cloudreach) 05:00 PM**

 

My feet lead me through Hightown, toward the Chantry. I stand in front of the big double doors made from gold and adorned with Chantry imagery and swallow heavily. I’ve never been inside the Chantry, and I’m not sure I want to start now. But I have to talk to someone to… share my burden, I guess. Isn’t that a selfish thing to do? To want to leave my problems with someone else?

 

When I was young and unhappy about my family life, I used to head to the neighbors and talked about how troubled I felt living with my Mom and stepfather. They tried to help me, told me I was welcome whenever I wanted, and sometimes I went over for social visits. But mostly I visited when I was in a bad place, when I’d had a fight at home, or when I needed to blow off some steam.

 

When my Mom and stepfather found out, they told me nothing would get fixed if I burdened other people with my problems. If I had a problem with them, I had to go to them and not to the neighbors. They couldn’t change anything if I didn’t tell them what was bothering me. I tried once, and we ended up yelling at each other. Since talking to the neighbors was the wrong thing to do, I wrote in my diary and tore out the pages afterward. I either burned them, flushed them down the toilet or shred them into little strips because if my parents found them, it’d just make them angrier. They weren’t the kind of people who’d think: ‘Oh, sucks that you felt that way two years ago, but I’m glad you feel better now.’ No, they were the kind of people who’d work themselves up into a fit of rage, getting offended over my thoughts and emotions from two years ago. They saw everything as a personal attack. As did I.

 

I lay my hand on the golden doors, its warmth seeping into my cold fingers. Breaths shudder in and out of my lungs and my shoulders shake with tremors. Fuck. Fuck! I grind my teeth together and set my jaw against a sob that wants to escape, and whimper instead. The walkways on either side of the courtyard are mercifully empty, the brazier with Eternal Fire crackling and raging behind me in the pretender-garden. Flanked by the giant statues of winged creatures - Thedosian sephiroth? - with my hand on the door, I gasp for air and tense my calves until they burn.

 

Did Thrask and Sebastian tell Cullen about the Tranquility, yet? How did he react? And what are we going to do with him if I can’t find Feynriel right away, to have his Tranquility reversed? Worse, what if it doesn’t work? What if Cullen knowing makes it impossible to draw a spirit of Faith to him? What if I’ve doomed him to lifelong of numbness in a waking dream?

 

I push open the door and slip inside, closing it behind. The click reverberates through the giant structure. Craning my head back, I gaze up. The ceiling is so high above it blurs in my vision, obscured by clouds of incense that billow out of the burners on either side of the hall. Doors stand silent vigil on either side, guarded by statues that are several stories high. Are they supposed to be Templars? I’m not sure. The scent of sweat hangs underneath the sweet, woody scent of incense. The Chantry is warm despite the time of the year.

 

My boots tap against the rough stones underneath my feet when I walk through the hall, my fingers kneading into my biceps. I keep my eyes on the ground or on the statues, licking my lips and chewing on the inside of my cheek. Narrowly avoiding a pool of red candle wax, I pause and turn around. Might as well respect their traditions while I’m here.

 

Bending over, I take one of the unlit candles and hold the fuse in one of the flames until it catches. I place it in a pool of wax and pat its side. What was the line from the Chant about comfort and stuff again? Blinking rapidly against my tears, I sniff and draw in a big breath through my open mouth.

 

Soft footfalls drift toward me, echoing through the empty hall.

 

“Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,  
I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm.  
I shall endure.  
What you have created, no one can tear asunder.”

 

I manage a smile for exactly one second, raising my eyes to look at Elthina, who’s lips are pulled into a solemn, reassuring smile. My eyes burn with tears, my forehead aches, and I rub my eyes to alleviate the pain. It’s useless, as always. I swallow back bile and tremble quietly, goosebumps rising on my arms. My teeth chatter, my eyes widen on their own accord, my heart gallops against my chest.

 

“Who knows me as You do?  
You have been there since before my first breath.  
You have seen me when no other would recognize my face.  
You composed the cadence of my heart.”

 

‘You have seen me when no other would recognize my face.’

 

Well, fuck. No-one here recognizes me for who I am. I don’t want to be Meredith Stannard anymore. I’m not cut out for this responsibility. No wonder she cracked under the pressure and Tranquilized herself. I rub over my arms before holding out my hands to the flickering flames, seeking any kind of warmth and comfort.

 

“Through blinding mist, I climb  
A sheer cliff, the summit shrouded in fog, the base  
Endlessly far beneath my feet  
The Maker is the rock to which I cling.”

 

Reciting with a soft cadence, Elthina stops at my left shoulder.

 

We look down at the candles together. I peek at her from the corner of my eye. Her dark gray hair is pulled back into a tight bun, lines etched on either side of her mouth, giving her a stern determined look. Her eyes are as gray as her hair, and I look away quickly. She looks like an angry grandmother, and I’m not looking for a lecture on the selfishness of self-pity.

 

“I cannot see the path.  
Perhaps there is only abyss.  
Trembling, I step forward,  
In darkness enveloped.”

 

I know the next verse by heart. And only because of Cullen. I’ve always seen this part of the Chant as Cullen’s prayer, only because of Inquisition. I clear my throat, ball my hands into fists and raise my voice above a whisper.

 

 “Though all before me is shadow,  
Yet shall the Maker be my guide.  
I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.  
For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light  
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

 

Elthina smiles and tilts her head to the side, folding her arms behind her back.

 

“I am not alone.  
Even as I stumble on the path  
With my eyes closed, yet I see  
The Light is here.”

 

Her voice is clear and soothing, and I manage a weak smile, eyes still on the flames. When I was young, I used to be afraid of fire. Mom took me to a Saint Martin celebration once, where a bonfire was lit. Sparks swirled through the air, the adults chatting amicably among themselves while the children ran around with their paper lanterns filled with candy. It’s the Dutch trick-or-treat, only without monsters and costumes.

 

I couldn’t for the life of me understand why no-one fled from the embers that sprang from the fire, crackling and blazing and ready to ambush anyone who came too close. I spent the night crying hysterically, grabbing Mom’s arm and dragging her away whenever embers sparked close to us.

 

I can’t remember if she told me the embers were harmless. I’m not even sure if I would’ve believed her. Probably not. I used to think I was the only sane person in a world of idiots.

 

So much for delusions of grandeur, I guess.

 

Elthina’s voice fills the silence, in the closing verse of the Canticle of Trials.

 

 “Draw your last breath, my friends.  
Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.  
Rest at the Maker's right hand,  
And be Forgiven.”

 

Her eyes meet mine at the last sentence and I break, tears flowing over my eyes. Hide them behind my hands, scrubbing desperately at my face, trembling and working myself into a hyperventilation. A hand gently touches my shoulder.

 

“Come, child,” Elthina says, her voice filled with sympathy. “We can go upstairs to my private chambers.”

 

I manage a weak nod, gaze down at the floor and swallow back tears. Her hand lays between my shoulder blades and she applies gentle pressure when she steers me toward the nearest door in the right wall, opening the cord and letting me pass. She closes it behind her and stays at my shoulder, ready to be there for me, when we climb up. My tears form a blinding mist in front of my eyes, but I climb nonetheless because up is the only way leading to recovery.

 

‘Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.’

 

If only she knew.

* * *

**Polls close on the 26th unless stated otherwise**

**[Who waits in Elthina's private chambers?](https://linkto.run/p/S9UR2NZR) (closes on the 24th!)**

[ **A love interest for Cullen** ](https://linkto.run/p/62IXFT5L)

[ **A love interest for Merethilda (only endgame OTP if you vote in that direction in later polls)** ](https://linkto.run/p/C9RS8ZUO)

[ **Choose the first ThirdPOV chapter** ](https://linkto.run/p/TQPDUMV8)

[ **Does Quentin become Leandra's suitor and a father figure to Hawke?** ](https://linkto.run/p/N84GDOXG)

[ **A survey to test the waters! Do you want Anders to blow up the Chantry?** ](https://linkto.run/p/P70AQDOW)

 


	15. Elsa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first ThirdPOV chapter, told from Elsa's point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Implied/referenced torture in the first part, torture in the last part.  
> 

**Day 4 (18th of Drakonis) 03:50 AM**

 

When Karras calls for everyone to assemble in the courtyard at nearly four in the morning, Elsa dresses swiftly, nudging Niana with her foot. Niana rolls over in her bedroll on the floor of Meredith’s bedroom, mumbling something unintelligible and flailing with her arm. Her brown hair splays over her pillow, tangled in rough curls and knots. Elsa crouches down next to her and shakes her shoulder.

 

“Wake up, something’s going on,” Elsa says softly. Niana blinks, her glassy eyes focusing.

 

With a small frown on her face, she pushes herself into a sitting position, her lips pressed together. “Is Meredith back?”

 

Elsa shakes her head. “Not yet. She might have stayed at the Clinic for the night. Thrask said she got injured during training.”

 

Niana blows her bangs out of her eyes. They fall back immediately, and she tucks them behind her ears. While she pulls a hairband off her wrist and ties her hair into a quick ponytail, Elsa changes into fresh smalls and wraps her Chantry robes around her body.

 

It’s still dark out, the room lit in the light of a blue glowstone. The crickets and birds are eerily silent.

 

Niana yawns, scrambling out of her bedroll and neatly rolling it into a tight packet. “What’s going on, then?” she asks, glancing at Elsa over her shoulder.

 

Elsa shrugs, placing one foot on the side of Meredith’s bed and bending forward until her hair hangs upside down. With nimble fingers, she sets about braiding them into one tight braid. She secures her bangs to either side of her head with Meredith’s small lockpicks. Meredith has never mentioned missing them, and who knows when they might come in handy?

 

“I don’t know,” Elsa answers. “Karras called for an assembly. Perhaps he will invoke the Right of Annulment.” Done braiding her hair, she straightens and cranes her neck to the right until it pops, then repeats it on the other side.

 

“What do we do, if he does?” Niana asks.

 

Elsa shrugs, lacing up her boots. “We do what Meredith would want us to do.”

 

“Which is?” Niana shrugs on her robes, smoothing out wrinkles.

 

“Stand with them. Kill as many Templars as we can. Cover the mages’ escape,” she says simply.

 

“Or we just kill Karras,” Niana says, lacing her own boots. “I used to work in a brothel before the Templars caught me. They had a small apothecary that sold aphrodisiacs and the like, made by an alchemist. I took over his shop when he died.”

 

Niana rolls her eyes. “Most of what he made was water mixed with dust or vaginal secretion. Everyone was thankful when I threw that recipe book into the fireplace.”

 

Stretching out on the floor, she reaches underneath the bed and withdraws a thick wooden box, around the length of her underarm. She withdraws a key from a pocket in her robes and opens it. Bottles and vials, filled with a myriad of powders and tonics sit in compartments. She pulls two out of the box and holds them up for Elsa’s inspection.

 

“If I rub this one on my hand,” Niana says, tapping the one in her left hand, filled with a colorless tonic. “And then apply this one and touch Karras’s naked skin…”

 

She holds up the one with a yellow powder. “He’d be dead before he could blink. Crisis averted.”

 

Elsa tilts her head to the side. “Do we want him dead before he can blink?”

 

Niana shrugs and replaces the bottles, closes the box, and shoves it back underneath the bed, smoothing down the covers.

 

“Maybe not.”

 

**Day 4 (18th of Drakonis) 04:15 AM**

 

Together, they make their way into the courtyard, blinking against the light of the Eternal Fire in the brazier behind the Sword of Mercy. The mages are in the middle, flanked on either side by Templars. Both are whispering among themselves. Elsa’s eyes sweep over the collected mages.

 

For some, this must be their first taste of fresh air in a long time. They all hear the whispers of mages locked away for years, left with wounds that infect and eat away their flesh while they’re still alive. Until the day nobody remembers their names, and they are left to starve and rot. If the infections don’t kill them first.

 

Elsa frowns, takes her place with the other Tranquil and waits for Karras to make his appearance. Before she was Tranquil, she’d go hungry at dinner and sneak her food into solitary. Sometimes she’d lay with a Templar and have them deliver it. A small trade to keep someone else fed and alive. There were times when she would let them do bizarre things in exchange for medicine, like letting herself get fucked with objects not meant for sex. Knife handles, broomsticks, sheathed daggers.

 

The flog wounds have long since healed, aided by healing magic. No-one ever asked questions. Not even the healers. They knew better than that. Some damage remains, and she’ll never bear children. Not that she wants children. No Tranquil wants for anything. They are both content and they just… are.

 

Elsa is. She exists. And that’s all she can say about life.

 

One Templar had a foot fetish, which earned her pleasant foot rubs. But other than that… most of them liked it when she begged. And beg she did. She’d struggled, clawed, cried, sobbed and moaned. When the Templars said climb, she’d climb to the top of the Gallows and stand on the roof, the relentless wind pushing against her. When they said jump, she’d let herself fall forward, the ground would drop out from underneath her. For a second she’d be weightless, invincible, the terror of the skies. And then an arm would wind around her waist and a slick, oiled cock would press against her behind and she’d tremble with adrenaline.

 

She’d enjoyed it. The thrill, the fear of meeting deaths eyes, the willingness to throw her life away at another’s whim.

 

Niana might have worked at a brothel, but she probably has never let a Templar slit her throat, breaths heaving in and out as her lungs filled up, her fingers warm and slick with her own blood, while a Templar held her tightly from behind and fucked her relentlessly. The Creation healer that had been forced to watch was the only thing that had saved her life, back then.

 

Almost. She can almost taste the sheer surrender on her tongue. The life seeping out of her. The ecstasy of someone pleasing her while she spiraled out of control into soothing darkness.

 

One day. She’d known. One day she’d go too far, one step too far, one cut too deep, one too many kicks, a chokehold too firm. One day her thirst for adrenaline, for the high, the thrill, would be the end of her.

 

The old Elsa, mage Elsa, would be grateful for what Meredith Stannard had done.

 

Karras appears and the crowd dies down. Someone coughs. Thrask raises his voice and shouts: “Ser Karras! What is the meaning of this?”

 

Karras chuckles, smooths the fur on his pauldrons and makes his way up the steps toward the Eternal Fire. He moves around it with slow, precise movements and stops with the fire at his back. If one were to be capable of awe, it could be seen as impressive. As it is, Elsa just watches with a blank expression.

 

“Meredith Stannard is dead!” His words drift on the wind, with the blazing fire crackling in the background, and silence descends over the courtyard. Elsa blinks, Niana meets her eyes over her shoulder, and Elsa shakes her head in denial.

 

There’s one thing no Templar realizes when they are faced with a Tranquil. They don’t feel, that much is true. They learn how to school their expressions into something that will make mages and Templars feel more comfortable around them.

 

And they are not fooled by dramatics, grand plays of facial expression, an emphasis on a word, by tones, by denial or omissions.

 

She might not feel, but Elsa tastes the lie on the tip of her tongue.

 

Amidst the mages, First Enchanter Orsino lets out a broken sob, doubling over. His hands cover his ears, his profile lit by fire. The one eye facing Elsa is squeezed shut, his lips are parted and curled into a grimace.

 

“No,” First Enchanter Orsino croaks, to no-one in particular. Perhaps not even to himself. “No, no, no, no. She can’t be- She just can’t- I- Oh, maker, please. Please.”

 

If she wanted to, she could reach him within ten, maybe fifteen steps. She could crouch before him, lay her hand on his shoulder and tell him Karras lied.

 

If she wanted to.

 

She hasn’t wanted anything in years, not since Meredith Stannard pressed the Brand against her forehead and her own mana burned through her veins and her head and made her scream in blinding pain. She’d tried to twist herself out of the chair, but the bindings were made from metal and paralysis runes and she hadn’t been able to twitch a finger.

 

Sebastian Vael lets out a series of violent curses that would make even the most worldly Chantry Mother blush and stammer.  Elsa hasn’t known him for very long, but he has been the absolute epitome of piety. She raises her eyebrows.

 

“I invoke the Right of Annulment!” Karras says, his voice drowning out the First Enchanter’s sobs. Elsa and Niana exchange a look.

 

Mages shriek, Templars draw their blades as one, and advance on the mages in their midst, corralling them into a tight bunch. Easier to put down, especially if you can cut off multiple heads in one sweep.

 

Elsa cranes her neck, standing on her tiptoes and calls out: “You have no right! You have no permission from the Grand Cleric, and you are not the Knight-Commander!”

 

Her voice is barely louder than the ruckus the panicked mages cause, but Sebastian Vael and Thrask hear her. Orsino snaps to his feet, his hands outstretched as they glow with an ominous green flame, sparking outwards and forming a circle around his charges.

 

“It’s true!” Sebastian Vael shouts, pulling his bow from his back and nocking an arrow in the same breath. He aims for Karras, who chuckles and shakes his head.

 

“She told me Ser Thrask would take over the Knight-Captain’s duties. By rights, the position defaults to either of them. You hold no power over the life or death of these mages,” he says, pulling back the string.

 

A mage grabs Niana by the shoulder and drags her through the green flames, putting her in a headlock and placing a sharp icicle underneath her right eye.

 

“Move, and she dies,” he growls at the nearest Templars, who circle around the fire like lions in wait. Elsa rolls her eyes. Don’t they know Tranquil don’t care for life? Dead or alive, conscious or unconscious, asleep or awake, it makes no difference. Every day is the same, every heartbeat is as steady as the one before, every musical note is hollow and bleak, like a withered flower.

 

Niana stands still, her eyes calm and indifferent. Her lips move, likely in a bland response to the mage holding her hostage, and he curses and shoves her away.. A Templar seizes the opportunity and dashes forward, his blade aimed for the mage’s heart, only to be swept aside by an unseen current of air. He smacks against a cart with a groan, falls to the ground and wraps his arm around his waist, his teeth grit together.

 

They should have used the poison.

 

Elsa brings her fingers to her lips and whistles. Only Orsino, Vael and Karras seem to hear her, and with their eyes on her, she steps forward until she’s right in front of the flames. They are ice cold, sizzling and shrieking with a power she’s unfamiliar with. This isn’t Veilfire.

 

Tilting her head to the side, she reaches out her hand. A faint pressure pushes her back, intensifying the closer she gets to the flames. Where her fingers should make contact with the fire, a wall of pressure forces her to a halt. It’s a feat of higher magic. Orsino channeled the raw power of the Veil into his spell, manipulating forming a shield around him and his charges.

 

“I won’t let you harm my mages,” Orsino snaps at her, his gray eyes glinting green in the light of the fire.

 

Elsa shrugs. “If you’d all shut up for a second, I could confirm what Ser Vael has said.”

 

She raises her voice. “It’s true, Ser Karras, you are not Knight-Commander. Thrask is. Hierarchy and tradition state Cullen is now Knight-Captain.”

 

Just as he was before. Even though he’s still slaving away on his latrine duty. Someone should do something about that. Maybe. Maybe not. It would be humbling for him to scrub toilets until his dying day.

 

“Neither has Grand Cleric Elthina given her permission for an Annulment. Therefore your invocation is null and void. No Templar should have drawn his or her blade today. Not by your bidding.”

 

She meets the eyes of every Templar holding a naked blade in his or her hands, daring them to make a move. Some fear the Tranquil, view them as the true abominations among mankind. No emotions, no morality, no values, they whisper. Spies, killing machines, monsters, psychopaths on a leash, they whisper.

 

No Tranquil disputes those whispers.

 

If they were to band together, every Tranquil in every Circle, fearless and focused and driven by conscious decision instead of emotions or motivations, they would be a force to be reckoned with.

 

If someone taught them how to wield their focus. Which no-one ever will.

 

No-one, except Meredith Stannard.

 

Elsa is no fool. She knows emotions even if she does not experience them herself. She knows the subtle shift in muscles, in twitches of the lips, in gestures and facial expressions. Meredith Stannard is not the same woman she was four days ago when she returned from her retreat in the mountains.

 

Elsa’s suspicions had been confirmed when Meredith, with a self-mocking grimace on her face, asked her to explain the pieces of armor, and which went where. Not a question a seasoned warrior would ask.

 

Indifferent, Elsa had explained what each piece was, what they protected, how they seamlessly slid into place if the armor was donned well.

 

And then Meredith had gone and punched Ser Alrik in the face, shouting at him at the top of her lungs. Meredith had shouted before, and she’d even tossed objects at Elsa’s head many times before (which she always dodged or even caught, because Meredith’s tantrums were predictable even in their unpredictability). But she’d never shouted at a fellow Templar who’d ordered a Tranquil to please him.

 

Usually, Meredith’s lips would twist into a scowl, her brows furrowing in a troubled frown, and she’d head the other way and pretend she’d seen nothing. Elsa never commented on this. Perhaps she should have done something. It was the unwritten rule. Tranquil existed to provide Templars their pleasure when they did not want to break their chastity vows.

 

Tranquil did not feel, did not enjoy, and therefore did not count.

 

At least that was what the Templars believed.

 

One by one, the Templars sheathe their blades. Even the ones who’d had a gleeful glimmer in their eyes seconds ago. They glance at Thrask and Sebastian and Cullen. Cullen stands in the background with his hands resting on the pommel of his sword, his eyes veiled behind a hard coldness. Elsa shakes her head.

 

No more than a desperate facade, a wall pulled up to reign in the panic within. To conceal a galloping heart, a shallow breath, a scrambling mind. A mask to fend off the terrors of the past. Everyone has heard about Kinloch Hold, about the Hero of Ferelden, about the Litany of Adralla. Everyone knows Cullen Rutherford came from Ferelden.

 

Not everyone knows about the blood clinging to his hands, or the madness slumbering just beneath the surface. But to someone who is unburdened by all this, to someone who’s both wide awake and walking a living dream, it’s plain as daylight. Raw conflict flickers in the depth of his eyes. His gloved hands tighten around the pommel of his sword.

 

If he draws his blade, Elsa will be the first one to throw herself on it, to take the brunt of the blow meant for some innocent, defenseless mage. Next to her, Niana squares her shoulders. Both of them will. Just because. Just as they exist because they are, they will cease to exist because they decide to step forward into the trajectory of a blade. Because.

 

Elsa tilts her head to the side and blinks slowly. Rutherford’s shoulders slump, and he releases his blade. Thrask hasn’t even made a move for his, a shield strapped hastily to his arm to defend himself. Maybe he meant to protect the mages.

 

The mages haven’t made another move after Thrask and Sebastian Vael raised their voices in protest. Karras watches them from above, his expression schooled in careful indifference.

 

“I revoke the Annulment,” he says, his lips twisted into a reluctant grimace. “Stand down!”

 

“Stand down!” Thrask echoes and the Templars sheathe their blades one by one and take a few steps back. The First Enchanter sustains his spell of green fire for a moment longer, before the flames die down and swirl into the darkness of the early morning. With the afterimage of the green glow blinding them in the sudden blackness, the mages blink and look at each other. Some drop to their knees and reach their hands up to the sky, praying and shaking to the Maker and Andraste, thanking both of them for their lives.

 

When emotions, expectations, and motivation falls away, so do the false beliefs among men. Since the day she was Tranquilized, Elsa has not prayed. There’s no use in praying to someone who does not answer. And what would she pray for, anyway? There is nothing she desires, nothing she longs for, nothing she wants.

 

The First Enchanter trembles. Karras shakes his head and storms into the Gallows, slamming the door shut behind him. One of the mages, Grace, yells obscenities after him. No-one chastises her. Thrask waves the Templars away, shouting and gesturing to the Templar Barracks, and they retreat in single file, some of them looking over their shoulders with a tight-lipped smile of guilt. Some of them tremble as much as the First Enchanter does. One breaks the line and doubles over, retching violently in the bushes.

 

The Tranquil remain in place. No-one has ordered them to retreat. So they watch and wait, observant as ever.

 

For the second time in history, an Annulment has been revoked. This time without casualties.

 

Thrask strides toward the First Enchanter and reaches out to lay his hand on Orsino’s shoulder. Orsino whirls around and disappears into the Gallows, his eyes hollow and reddened.

 

No casualties, save for one man’s broken heart.

-

When she was young and a mage, Elsa had been raised by her father and uncle. She doesn’t remember her mother. Her father and uncle refused to speak of her. Uncle Runal hadn’t been her real uncle, he’d mentioned as much once, but by then the title had stuck. He’d taught her how to make the waves in the creek behind their cabin bob up and down, how to make the water ripple and splash and flow over the creek’s boundaries. He’d taught her how to light a fire with an elegant wave of her hand, and how to gather electricity in her hand and feel it tingle against her fingers.

 

And one day, he’d taken her out into the woods, far away from where her father was chopping wood for the fireplace, taken out a carving knife, and set her down and told her to carve the likeness of a white-tailed deer. Clumsy at first, her moves imperfect and not precise, it had taken hours to create a rough outline. More of a blob than a deer, but what mattered was that her sweat and determination had made it.

 

He took the deer from her, sitting crossed-legged across from her on a tapestry of autumn leaves, held it between his folded hands and coached her through a series of simple breathing exercises to clear her mind. Determined to make him proud, she set to work.

 

Uncle Runal told her to stay very still when hoofs stomped softly on the forest floor, and a deer snuffled in the vicinity. She peeked through her eyelashes and watched the majestic animal, a buck with broad antlers and a white-spotted tail. Its black nose was wet and warm when it snuffled at her cheek and her hair. She’d smiled dreamily all the way back to their cabin.

 

It took her months to summon her own animal, a small brown chicken from a nearby farm of all things, but in her dreams, she’d managed to summon her white-tailed deer long before. It spoke into her mind, it’s soothing deep voice coaching her to shape her determination into a sphere and spear it at the demons whispering in the fringes of her mind. When she’d asked it what its name was, it said she could call it Determination.

 

To her, it would always be Snuffles.

 

One day, when she sat next to the riverbank practicing her meditation, her mana tore through her, burning from her hands through her arms and down to the rest of her body. Mana was supposed to flow outwards into creation, not the other way around, and she breathed against her panic and the pain and sat stock still, with her hands on her upper legs. Her muscles strained, her jaw clenched, her joints locked and for a terrifying second, she was paralyzed.

 

The storm inside her died down, and she fell headfirst into a pile of damp leaves, before puking out her breakfast. Something had changed. Blinking, she’d looked up at the sky, the call of an eagle encouraging her to take to the air and fly. A mouse scurried at her feet, unafraid, and phantom whiskers tickled her cheek.

 

Elsa’s magic exploded inside of her, and she’d joined the winged creatures in the skies, aiming for the clouds and chasing the stars.

 

They’d been waiting for her when she got home, clad in nothing but air. Her clothes hadn’t changed with her, they’d simply ceased to exist when she’d shifted.

 

With rosy cheeks from excitement, her eyes glinting and wild, branches and leaves tangled in her hair, she’d stepped into the cabin and frozen in place. Silver armor, a Sword of Mercy on their chest plates, unforgiving eyes in their angry faces. Three older men, one woman, and a young man. The latter blushed, stammered and averted his eyes. The woman regarded her with cool blue eyes, eyes as striking as the morning sky, and told her in simple terms Elsa was to come with them, or they’d kill her father and make her Tranquil.

 

Obediently, she’d held out her hands without a word, and they’d slapped manacles on her wrist. All three of them breathed out in relief, they let her father hug her and didn’t protest when he pushed her carved deer into her hands to take with her.

 

Later, on a boat that would take her far away from her forest, her father and Uncle Runal, she clutched her deer to her chest and hung over the railing, her stomach churning and emptying itself every few minutes. The deer almost slipped from her damp fingers, and the woman had gently tugged it out of her hands and dropped it in her pack.

 

“I’ll keep it safe,” the woman had said. Elsa had nodded gratefully.

 

“What’s your name, child?” the Templar had asked, crouching in front of her at eye-level.

 

For a second, Elsa hesitated and pressed her fist against her mouth. Should she? Uncle Runal had taught her names were powerless. The power to manipulate someone, to plant seeds in someone’s mind and to nourish them day by day came from blood. Blood was power. Everything else was a weak substitute.

 

Not that Uncle Runal had ever taught her blood magic. She’d tried it herself, once. Just a small cut on her abdomen. A strange buzz had unfolded in her head, and… what in the Maker’s name was she supposed to do with it? At a loss, she’d thought to use it to heal her cut, but the magic rebelled and bucked against her manipulations, like a slimy snake wringing out of her grasp. With a shrug, she’d let the energy disperse into the air.

 

“Elsa,” she’d answered.

 

The woman had smiled. “You look just like her,” she’d said. Too afraid to ask, Elsa had clamped her jaws together.   

 

She’d never seen her carved deer again.

 

In her dreams, she saw Snuffles, who told her she had to be brave and determined. She’d have to learn magic all over again, to forget everything Uncle Runal had taught her, to empty her mind and do as she was told if she wanted to stay alive. Their spells were unfamiliar, and her mana rebelled and lashed out at her whenever she tried to force it into the desired patterns. She found ways around it, reconstructed the Circle spells, broke them into tiny pieces and changed the order, achieved the same effect with different methods.

 

She thought no-one noticed until she was dragged out of class one afternoon. The Knight-Commander was an older man and sat in his office, his hand stroking through his beard, his eyes not unkind. She was told to take a seat, and the Knight-Captain appeared from a back room.

 

“She’s perfect for our plans,” Meredith Stannard had said, gesturing to her.

 

Elsa was given a glass of water. Nervous under their intense scrutiny, she’d downed it in one go.

 

Everything after was strangely fuzzy. They asked her questions. Where is he? Did he teach her anything? Did she know where he was from? Did she know her father had harbored an apostate?

 

Her dry answer of: “Yes: me.” earned her a slap that made her ears ring and her vision blur.

 

They denied her water and food. But it was all right. Runal often went into the mountains to meditate, and sometimes he’d take her with him. She was used to the feeling of hollowness.

 

Sleep was harder. They’d strapped her to chair, the Brand sizzling in a brazier in the middle of the room, as a threat. Her neck and shoulders ached and the firelight kept her awake. Having no windows to see the outside world, she lost track of time.

 

They changed tactics pretty quickly. They forced her to drink magebane until she started hallucinating. They gave her dusty leaves to chew on. She knew deathroot when she saw it. But she ate it nonetheless. Better to die free than to live your life trapped in the Circle.

 

She nearly shat out her bowels and puked until she was sure her intestines would come out through her throat, but she didn’t die. They wouldn’t let her die.

 

She would die when they ordered her to die, and not a second too early.

 

After a few weeks, the Knight-Captain didn't return, and Meredith Stannard had her released. With the threat of Tranquility still above her head, she told no-one what had happened to her.

 

**Day 10 (24th of Drakonis) 04:15 PM**

 

Pulling her fur-lined cloak tighter around herself, she steps into the Hanged Man. According to Carver Hawke, this was where the assassin had a room. Hawke had tried to sell him off to an Antivan Crow, but Isabela had thrown a fit. Carver’s cheeks and ears had reddened when he’d spoken about Isabela. He’d muttered something about her demanding sex from the Crow.

 

“Hey! We don’t serve- Oh, it’s you. Sorry.” Corff’s sneer falls off his face when she meets his eyes and raises her eyebrows. They don’t serve…? Tranquil? Circle people? She leans forward, around a huge drunk man who smirks at her with broken, rotting teeth.

 

 

“I’m looking for someone,” she says, her voice calm. Her nose wrinkles at the stench of unwashed drunkard oozing from the jolly man.

 

Corff pulls in his chin and looks up at her, his eyes wide. “Uh… all right. Huh. It’s not like I don’t get that question every day or anything. So, what’re you looking for?”

 

Her mind goes black and she stares at him, blinking. Wait. He thinks she’s looking for…

 

“Not like that. I’m looking for an assassin by the name of Zevran-”

 

The drunk man penguin-shuffles away from her, his lips pulled together with the corners pointing down, his eyes wide as saucers.

 

“-Arainai,” Corff and Isabela finish for her. Elsa nods.

 

Corff whistles through his teeth. “Upstairs, second room to the left. Hope you’ve got gold with you. Or solid bars of the stuff. Or Antivan brandy. Drinks it by the gallon, that guy. I’m surprised he doesn’t…”

 

She slides coins over the counter toward him, nods at Isabela in greeting and turns around, making her way toward the stairs. The dwarf, Varric, stops writing and regards her curiously, but she only nods and ascends the creaking stairs.

 

At the second door to the left, she knocks. Nothing. She knocks again. Nothing. She raises her hand to knock again and pauses when a muffled groan floats through the wood. Pursing her lips, she lays her hand on the door. To break in, or not to break in? Zevran Arainai might be dying on the other side, for all she knows.

 

She shoulders the door open and comes to a halt on the threshold, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head to the side. Zevran Arainai is an elf, a blonde, has tattoos that swirl over his abdomen and down his thighs and he’s naked.

 

He also has a hard-on. Which twitches in his hand when he looks up at her through half-lidded eyes, an amused smile on his lips.

 

“Really?” she asks, rolling her eyes. “I could’ve been an assassin. You’d be dead. Or a eunuch.”

 

He winces at the last word, grabs a dark red pillow and covers his private parts, arching his back and stretching his hand behind his head. With his head tilted to the side, he regards her curiously.

 

“And I am neither, so here we are, no? What can I do for you, wild beauty of the Gallows?” he asks, his voice amused.

 

Elsa rolls her eyes and brushes her bangs out of her eyes, exposing her Brand. “In case you haven’t noticed, I am Tranquil. Flattery will get you nowhere, nor threats, nor bribes, nor torture or anything else you can think of.”

 

He blinks lazily. Sweetly, he says: “You forgot ‘sex’.”

 

She shrugs. “Sex is physically pleasant. It might have gotten you somewhere.”

 

On his back, hands pinned above his head, while she rode the living daylight out of him, to be precise. Softness does next to nothing for her anymore, not since her Tranquility.

 

“Unfortunately for you, you are spoken for.”

 

Zevran laughs and scratches at his chest, releasing the pillow. It falls forward and he rolls his eyes and shoves it off.

 

For an elf, his cock is adequately sized. The shaft is thinner than the head. A good shape for stimulation through penetration.

 

Why is she thinking about sex? Her body isn’t sending any stimuli. He doesn’t arouse her. She’s here to learn how to kill people, not how to ride them, anyway.

 

“I want to learn how to kill people.”

 

Arainai raises his eyebrows, pursing his lips, one hand absentmindedly drawing circles over his abdomen, the other still behind his head.

 

“You are in the right place, then, my friend. Might I ask who-”

 

“Templars,” she answers at once. “Karras, specifically, but I wouldn’t be troubled if more of them dropped dead under mysterious circumstances.”

 

He chuckles. “Mysterious circumstances is what you don’t want,” he points out, stretching his arms over his head, arching his back and craning his neck backward. Muscles pop and he lets out a deep breath.

 

He tilts his head, a smirk on his face. “What you want is a quick, clean death and no trace leading to you or anyone you want to keep from suspicion. A scapegoat to frame would be best, in your case a Templar known to be corrupt. The Chantry takes his head, and you have killed two birds with one stone, so to say, no?”

 

She shakes her head. “No. I don’t care about suspicion. His death should be long and painful. Teach me how to carve into flesh. I have a message to deliver.”

 

His smirk is devious and sadistic, his eyes alight with excitement. “Oho, so it is torture you want to learn.”

 

He tucks in his chin, narrows his eyes and gazes up at her. “Yes, I do believe you’ll make an excellent apprentice. Ha! The Crows must be rolling over in their shallow graves at this very moment, Cuore freddo.”

 

Elsa raises her eyebrows, crossing her arms over her chest. “Did you just call me Freddo?”

 

Arainai bursts into laughter, shaking his head. “From now on, I certainly will! But no. It was Antivan. Cuore freddo. Cold heart?”

 

“Oh,” she says. There’s nothing else to say. Shrugging, she makes to turn around, digging into the pouch at her waist.

 

She tosses ten sovereigns over her shoulder. “You’ll get more if you teach me well.”

 

His amused chuckle drifts through the door before she closes it behind her. Varric waves for her to sit with him when she makes her way down the stairs, but she shakes her head and strides toward the front door.

 

“How did-” Isabela begins, but Elsa ignores her, too.

 

She has work to do, after all.

 

**Day 21 (4th of Solace) 3:00 AM**

 

Lacking a connection to the Fade, she can’t use any talents that come with being a rogue. As Arainai had explained, most men and women the general public saw as rogues were merely men and women with daggers or bows in their hands. Some of them might have a talent for archery or dueling, but they lacked the will and the power to channel their inherent connection to the Fade into something tangible.

 

He’d shown her how it was done. One second, he was in front of her, giving her a mischievous smirk. The next, he was gone. No gradual transition, no fading out of sight. In the blink of an eye, there was only air where he’d stood.

 

Air that shuddered like the air in a desert, but still his stealth approached perfection.

 

She’d tried, but she lacked a connection to the Fade.

 

“What about dwarves?” she’d asked him. Zevran, visible again, had frowned at her.

 

“Are there dwarf rogues?” she’d clarified.

 

He’d chewed on the inside of his cheek, tilted his head to the side and regarded her with guarded eyes.

 

“I’ve seen plenty of dwarves with daggers in Orzammar, but I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen one do what I can do.”

 

He smirked. “I’m just ridiculously awesome like that, too great for anyone to copy me.”

 

Elsa rolled her eyes, and he’d chuckled, before disappearing.

 

The physical exertion that came with sparring with Arainai had been beneficial to her health. They hadn’t trained long enough for any muscles to truly become defined against her skin, but her robes and trenchcoats were a little looser and her appetite has increased noticeably. Not that she stowed away as much food as Arainai did. He’d laughed and shaken his head when she’d asked him where he left all the stuff.

 

“You think this is a lot? You must think my beloved Lyna a glutton, then. She puts away twice the volume I do,” he’d said. Ah, yes, the infamous Grey Warden appetite. And the equally infamous stamina.

 

In the back of her mind, she’d filed the knowledge about rogues, warriors and mages away.

 

A warrior was a warrior because their connection to the Fade allowed them to let out thundering roars that could draw attention from their foes, distracting them from their current targets, among other talents.

 

A rogue, if well trained, could be a terror on the battlefield. On a high vantage point, they could remain unseen whilst shooting their arrows, critically wounding enemies before they even realized what was happening. Not to mention their uncanny ability to always end up at their target’s backs to slit through throats, or at their friend’s backs, to aid them in battle.

 

Rogues rounded off a solid company. Together with a warrior, who could magnify their roars with a battle horn, they could control a battlefield and push it toward calm control or absolute, focus-shattering chaos. Add a mage, who could sprinkle the battlefield with lightning and pick off enemies one by one with concentrated, targeted spells, and the enemy would be up to their eyeballs in trouble.

 

Not that she has a need for a rogue's cloaking. Her footfalls echo through the Gallows's empty hallways. The moon lights her way, barely more than a sliver in a sky sprinkled with stars. It's cold this time of year, especially at night, so she dressed sensibly in a warm cloak with a pulled up hood, obscuring her face. The mages are locked away safely, something Meredith is like to change in the future- if they ever get her back, that is. Templars are doing their rounds, but all it takes is a peek at the Brand on her forehead to mark her free of suspicion.

 

How a simple thing can change the way others look at you. Think about you. Act around you. The new Meredith is the only one who ever bothers to talk to her at all as if they're equals. More than that. Elsa knows more about the politics of Thedas, the Free Marches, the Circles and the Templars than Meredith does.

 

Whoever Meredith Stannard really is, she's not from Thedas. She isn't of the Qun, either, or she would've made her way to the Qunari compound for ceremonial burning. At least that's what the rumors say about Qun Saarebas.

 

Elsa cocks her head, studying moths and mosquitoes flying around a glowstone on the wall. Have Circle mages ever tried to join the Qun? Did they get shackled and silenced just like the Saarebas? Or were they deemed uncontrollable and killed on the spot?

 

With silent moves, she picks the lock on Alain's cell, opens the door and slips inside, keeping it open behind her. The mattress on the floor takes up more than half the space, the only other furniture a small chamberpot and a sink on the left side of the cell. No bathtub, nothing to sit on, nothing to put clothes in. She tiptoes around the robes scattered on the floor, wrinkling her nose at the moldy scent billowing up from the dusty blankets.

 

Alain mumbles something underneath his breath and rolls on his stomach, a frown on his face and his teeth clamped around his bottom lip. His eyes move rapidly behind his eyelids. His hands are fisted in the blankets, pulled around his shoulders, his legs pulled up, trying to make himself as small as possible.

 

Elsa kneels next to him and blinks in the darkness. Little light filters in through the barred window in the top of the wall, too high to reach and too small to squeeze through more than a hand. As softly as she can, she reaches out for his shoulder with one hand, the other hand ready to clamp over his mouth should he scream.

 

"AAAAAAAH- HMMMPHF!"

 

And scream he does. Elsa's ears shriek from the sound, clapping her hand over his mouth. He bites into her hand, hard enough to draw blood, and flings out his leg, hitting her in the stomach. The mages aren't allowed to exercise, and in this confined space, he can't draw back his leg far enough to deliver a real kick.

 

 

"Shush, it's Elsa," she whispers. He goes slack and stares at her, his brown eyes wide. He says something, his lips warm and wet on the palm of her hand, his breath tickling her flesh.

 

"You won't scream if I remove my hand?" she asks. Alain nods, and she slowly pulls back her hand, ready to jump back if he does scream. He runs his hand through his brown hair and pushes himself up against the wall with the other, blinking at her.

 

"You're Meredith's assistant," he whispers, his voice hoarse from sleep and disuse. "What are you doing here?"

 

His eyes widen and he kneads the blanket around his legs. "He's not... I didn't talk... they're not making me Tranquil, are they?"

 

With a raised eyebrow, Elsa holds up the lockpicks for him to see. "Would I have picked the lock if that were the case?"

 

Alain gapes at her. "But… don’t you have keys...?"

 

"I do," Elsa says with a shrug. Alain blinks, swallows and opens his mouth and closes it again. He shakes his head and draws in a big, shaky breath.

 

"Then what are you doing here?" he asks, biting on his thumbnail. Elsa tilts her head to the side.

 

"Asking for your help to take down Karras," she replies, meeting his eyes.

 

The color drains from his face, and he tries to scramble back even though there's no space to scramble to. He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, clutching at his elbows.

 

Is he shaking his head, or is he trembling so badly it just looks like he is?

 

"Take down..." he lets out a hysterical giggle and clamps his hand over his mouth, a blush creeping to his cheeks. "Maker's breath, he'll know. He knows everything that's going on around here. He'll have my head."

 

"Tell me honestly," Elsa says, leaning back. "What would be worse: being dead and freed from your prison, being Tranquil and freed from your prison, or being alive and imprisoned?"

 

"It's..." he begins, blinking and shaking his head, before burying it in his hands. "It's not like that. I wouldn't be the same person if I didn't feel anything anymore."

 

Elsa chuckles. "The moment the emotions and the chaos fall away is the moment you learn who you truly are," she says with conviction.

 

Alain peeks up at her from between his fingers and she goes on. "I can go anywhere I want. I can visit anyone I want. And no-one will think twice if I tell them I have orders to take a mage to the docks and put them on a ship."

 

"You could join us if they Tranquilize you. No more fears, no more torment, no more nightmares."

 

He bites his lip, averts his eyes and clears his throat. "One condition."

 

She nods and bends forward to catch his whispered words.

 

"If it looks like he's going to steal me away and keep me as his plaything, I want you to kill me. Promise me you'll do it."

 

With nimble fingers, she unsheathes the dagger strapped to her thigh, drawing it through the self-made slit in her robes. The steel catches the light, cast back at herself.

 

"Without hesitation," she says.

 

"Okay, I'm in. What's-" he says, but heavy footsteps make their way through the hallway. With wide eyes and an ashen face, Alain scrambles for the blankets, pulling them tightly around himself. Elsa steps back into the shadows, dagger in hand. She fingers a glowstone the size of a pea and tilts her head to the side, straining her ears.

 

"It's him," Alain whispers softly, shifting underneath his blankets. Nodding in thanks, Elsa tosses the glowstone through the bars, where it bounces like a little star. It bounces once, twice, and rolls over the floor, coming to a stop in front of heavy steel boots, in front of the cell.

 

Karras bends at the waist, pinches the stone between his thumb and index finger and straightens, narrowing his eyes at the blue glow emanating from the stone.

 

"What the..." he begins.

 

From the darkness, another glowstone sparks. It's much bigger and blindingly bright, revealing Niana's dark sleek hair and brown eyes, her skin bleached by the glow. Her eyes are wide, her Brand bleeds from where she picked at it, blood drips from her fingers clutching the stone. Her entire body trembles and she lets out an unholy shriek, doubling over and clutching her stomach.

 

"Maker's breath!" Karras says, jumping. Alain is screaming just as loudly as Niana is, probably out of real fear. Good thing Alain's cell is remote. Plus, everyone has nightmares, so screaming is nothing new under the sun.

 

Niana wears a torn dress, revealing her chest and breasts, both covered in blood and gore. Splatters of blood stand out sharply on her skin. There are cobwebs in her hair.

 

"What is the meaning of this?" Karras asks, not stepping closer to her. Elsa's fingers touch a glowstone in her pocket, but she doesn't take it out. Not yet.

 

Niana draws in a raw, wheezing breath and gurgles, spitting out a wave of blood. It hits the floor with a wet squelch.

 

"Maker above, is that... that's a..."

 

Niana giggles, straightening, blood dripping from her chin. She takes one step forward, dragging her right leg behind her.

 

Karras draws his blade, holding it out in front of him. "Stay there, demon."

 

Niana laughs, more blood spurting from her mouth. Karras flinches when a few droplets hit him in the face. She tilts her head to the left slowly, then to the right, keeping her eyes on Karras.

 

"What's wrong?" she asks with a honeyed, innocent tone, followed by a giggle.

 

"Don't you want to touch me?" she asks, brushing her hands over her neck and down to her breasts, leaving a trail of blood in their wake.

 

"You don't want to play with me anymore now, do you?"

 

With a curse, Karras recites words in Arcanum, and Niana laughs, holding the glowstone at her lips.

 

"The Litany won't help you, Karras. I come from within, sent by the mages you've snuffed out over the years."

 

Karras lunges, and the glowstone's light is snuffed out at once.

 

"Stop this, right now!" he says, whirling around, his eyes darting everywhere. Niana giggles behind him. He jerks, losing his grip on his sword. It clangs to the ground, the glowstone burns brightly for a second, illuminating the sleek silver. Karras throws himself forward just as the light dies. With a gasp, he finds himself on the wrong end of his sword when the glowstone burns again, his head craned back and his eyes wide.

 

On bare feet, leaving bloodied footprints, Niana circles him, the sword still at his throat. Karras shuffles with her, his eyes wide and his hands held up in surrender. His fingers tremble and his chest heaves up and down, his face ashen.

 

Niana giggles. "Don't you see, Karras? I'm Death. All those mages, silently seething, silently begging for revenge, all their sweet little nightmares drawing me in... They sang to me, in the Fade."

 

Elsa blinks. This... wasn't part of the plan, was it? Karras trembles and a stream trickles against his armor from the inside with a canny sound. Niana throws back her head and laughs, a stream of blood cascading out of her slit throat. With a smirk, she throws herself forward. Karras, who doesn't see her moving the blade away before her jump, screams and stumbles backward, tripping over his own feet.

 

Niana laughs breathily and tosses the glowstone to the ground. It flickers rapidly. One second, Niana is creeping towards Karras, the next, she's reached him, and the next she's straddled him, pressing her slit throat almost in his face. Karras pants, the white of his eyes larger than his eyes, his pupils blown wide.

 

In the next flash of light, Niana holds a knife above her head. Karras screams, begs, sobs, to no avail. Giggling madly, Niana carves a sunburst in his forehead. Either the knife, Karras's blood, or the poison Niana coated the knife in sizzles against his flesh. His body spasms uncontrollably, his fingers twitch, he bites on his tongue and coughs out blood, wheezing.

 

Elsa pushes open the cell door and steps into the hallway, tilting her head to the side.

 

She steps forward and Karras's eyes land on her. "You!" he gasps. "Help me! Kill the demon!"

 

She draws her knife. His relief at seeing an armed Tranquil is ridiculous. "What will you do for me, if I save your life?" she asks.

 

With a sob, Karras gasps: "Anything! I'll do anything, give you anything, I'll do whatever you want!"

 

Done carving the sunburst, Niana cups his chin and forces him to turn his head, to look up at her.

 

"Oh. Where have I heard that before? Any idea, Elsa?" she asks sweetly.

 

Elsa hums, tapping her blade with her nails. "Probably from the mages he's raped. He always tells them he'll be gentle if they beg..."

 

She kneels down behind his head, puts her hands on his shoulders and leans in with her full weight. Karras stares at her, his lips bloodless, blood dripping from his forehead. "You... you... No. Please. Please."

 

Elsa closes her eyes for a few seconds, tapping her lips with a finger. Her lips pull into a smile she opens her eyes. "I'm Tranquil, remember? I have no emotions. Your pleas don't warm my cold, dead heart."

 

"The Templars will hear of this. They'll put all of you down, you hear me. The entire Circle will be annulled. You'll have blood on your hands," he spits.

 

As Niana brings down her blade and carves an R into his chest and he jerks from the pain, Elsa leans over him. Her hair brushes over his cheek. "Guess what, Karras..." she whispers.

 

Niana giggles and wriggles her fingers at him, coated in dark blood. She blows him a kiss and winks. "Do you really think we'll let anyone find out about this?"

 

Elsa taps him on the shoulder and his eyes snap back to her face.

 

"Not what I was going to say, but, what she said," she says with a shrug, taking out her own knife. She lifts it above her head and drives it deep into his shoulder, bathing her fingers in blood. For a second, her chest itches with the surreal urge to laugh like a hysterical maniac. It fades. Twisting the blade, she wrenches it out and drives it back in right away.

 

She lowers her head until her mouth is at his ear and whispers:

 

"We're not afraid of you, Karras. We never were, and we’ll never be."

 

**Day 21 (4th of Solace) 4:00 AM**

 

Afterward, when they've given him enough Adders' kiss to down a dragon, Elsa waves at Niana to get her attention.

 

Niana's emotionless eyes focus on her, and she shrugs, gesturing to Karras with her chin. "How are we going to get him to the courtyard?"

 

After a second, she also asks: "Did you perforate your stomach to vomit up all that blood?"

 

Someone snorts from the darkness and steps forward, her minx brown hair slapping against her ears. Her blue eyes are wild and her smirk is dark.

  


"No, that was all me," Grace says, holding up a vial filled with blood. "Thank you, for trusting me with your blood, Niana."

 

Niana blinks. “I don’t need trust to give my blood. I couldn’t care less about the consequences… Literally, I suppose.”

Grace grimaces and lets the vial slip from her fingers, stepping on the broken glass and grinding it underneath her heel for good measure. With a frown, she looks at the blood covering the floor. Holding up her hands, the blood drips toward her to gather in a pool around her feet. It evaporates into a red mist, clinging to the air around her. An invisible force lifts Karras off the floor as if he's light as a feather.

 

"See, I told you blood magic has its charms," Grace says with a chuckle. In the background, Alain whimpers.

 

Grace snorts and rolls her eyes. "You're just a wuss," she chastises him.

 

Three girls, two covered from head to toe in blood, the other surrounded by red mist, walk silently through the hallways on their way to the courtyard.

 

On their way to a fresh pyre.

 

On their way to fiery retaliation.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	16. Fire

**Poll results**

[ **Elthina's visitor** ](https://i.imgur.com/qwFy7Ca.jpg)

[ **Quentin** ](https://i.imgur.com/Pjmus8c.png)

[ **Merethilda’s love interest** ](https://i.imgur.com/ZXf5JIK.jpg)

[ **Cullen's love interest** ](https://i.imgur.com/3GoUCTv.png)

**\--------------------------------------------------**

Elthina's private chambers are a freaking penthouse. What happened to not having any wealth? Ugh, Elthina, you hypocriete kuttekop.

 

My stomach churns. Here she is, trying to help me. Selflessly letting me into her home, and here I am insulting her. That I didn't say it out loud doesn't mean squat. I still thought it. I'm no better than her. I might like to think I am, but look who gets herself in trouble every time she steps outside, and now look who's ruled this city for the past few years. Even if ruling it involves... standing there and doing nothing.

 

Where do I sign?

 

A chuckle catches in my throat when the afternoon light catches a flash of bright red hair, curious blue eyes and elegantly curved eyebrows. As if struck by lightning, I stop dead in my tracks, staring at Leliana with wide, watery eyes. My mouth falls open, an unintelligible croak comes out of my mind and I clamp it shut, my eyes still wide as saucers. Dust rises up from the Bordeaux colored chair when Leliana pushes herself to her feet, smiling warmly.

 

Thank the Maker. She's still nice. Shove your plans for her where the sun doesn't shine, Justinia. Leliana is mine now. Mwuahahaha.

 

She smells like Andraste's Grace. Not that I know what they smell like, since they only grow in Ferelden and Orlais, but I just know. Yeah, okay, I just guessed, but who the fuck gives a shit. It's a flowery scent, get over it.

 

Broad windows cover the wall from floor to ceiling, letting in an ample amount of light. A halo of sunlight crowns Leliana from behind, blinding me. I glance at Elthina. Elthina smiles the smile of an old woman reminiscing about her younger years.  

 

Uh, hello, does nobody see the Maker's omen of light around our favorite Orlesian Bard? I mean, any less subtlety and His voice is going to boom from the sky. Or maybe my imagination is getting away from me again.

 

Despite the cold weather, Leliana's dressed in black leggings ending at her ankles, sandals strapped securely on her feet. Her toenails are painted a girly pink. D'aww.

 

Why am I looking at feet, you ask? It's only because I owned two sets of shoes with toes in ridiculously bright pink and yellow. For running. In broad daylight. No biggie. It brightened some people's days on my commute to work, so that was one good deed checked off.

 

She wears a red Chantry shirt with the starburst symbol and a brown sleeveless leather jacket over that. A locket with Andraste's silhouette rests on her bare collarbone.  Her fingernails are painted in the same cheery pink, the last digits of her fingers peeping out of brown leather gloves.

 

In the two seconds it takes for me to take her in, she's reached me and pulled me into a tight hug. My shoulders draw up to my ears, I clench my jaw and force myself to keep breathing. My calves burn from the strain. My stomach churns and tears prick in my eyes. I grit my teeth.

 

Come on, put your arms around her. Leliana is sweet as a nug, she won't harm a hair on your head. Damn it, hug her back already. Squeezing my eyes shut until I see stars, I put my hands on her lower back and give the tiniest squeeze in return. She yelps in surprise when I shove her back, and I bite my lip, clenching my hands into fists.

 

"Sorry. I'm, uh, a bit jumpy with physical contact," I mutter, staring at the ground. A wriggling mass of wrinkly, shrill grunting pink trots over to me and looks up at me with beady eyes, it's snout opened widely, pink tongue lolling out. Leliana laughs.

 

"Schloomples! What did I tell you about visitors! Maker's breath, I'm sorry. If he bothers you, I can..."

 

Yeah, yeah, blah blah blah. I crouch down, let Schloomples sniff at the back of my hand, and scratch him behind his little ear, smirking like an idiot. Schloomples grunt-shrieks and collapses on his side, little legs mowing from left to right when I rub his belly.

 

"Oooh, this is nice, isn't it? Aren't you a cute little nug, such a good oh dear Lord you really have little feet and hands."

 

Schloomples doesn't notice my hysterical giggling or ignores crazy old me. Leliana smothers a laugh behind her hand and Elthina lets out an amused chuckle, her robes rustling behind me.

 

"Pick him up," Leliana says enthusiastically, smiling from ear to ear. Bewildered, I stare at her. Uhhh...

 

"He likes being carried," she reassures me. "He's so small, being up high makes him feel like a king. A Nug King!"

 

Schloomples grunts in agreement (or impatience, because I stopped rubbing his belly) and I bite on my tongue to suppress the next burst of hysteria. Pick up the nug, okay. I can do that. Right? Tilting my head to the side, I look at Schloomples doubtfully. Schloomples blinks his beady little eyes at me. Maybe he's just as skeptical as I am?

 

Oh well. "Here we go, Schloomples," I mutter, shoving my hands underneath his wrinkles, soft skin and scooping him up in my arms. Christ, for a little pig, he weighs a ton.

 

"You need to be on a diet," I tell him with narrowed eyes.

 

"Oh oh," Leliana whispers. Elthina snorts a laugh.

 

Schloomples shrieks at the top of his lungs, wriggling like I'm a butcher instead of your friendly neighborhood Knight-Commander. With wide eyes, I hold him out for Leliana to take. Laughing, Leliana holds him to her chest and whispers in his ear:

 

"Don't mind her, Schloomp, she's just a nasty little Knight-Commander. Look at her! All skin and bones! No wonder she thinks you should lose weight. But you're perfect, aren't you? This is just baby fat, isn't it? Yes, yes it is, aren't you a good little boy..."

 

I roll my eyes and rub over my forehead. Seriously? Okay, I'm never getting a nug.

 

"I'm getting a nug-eating deepstalker," I mutter to myself, and Elthina walks toward the kitchen on the right side of her chambers, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Leliana narrows her eyes at me, brow creased in mock disdain. I smirk.

 

"Do you girls care for a cup of tea? Goats milk? Water from the well behind the Chantry?" Elthina asks, her back still turned to us. Her kitchen is well stocked, small as it is. It's even smaller than the one in my apartments. Without waiting for our reply, she fills a kettle with clear water and sets it on a marble plate, tapping a heating rune.

 

Thedosians invented induction. What in the world do they need fireplaces for? Put enough runes on the floor, the walls, the ceiling and you never have to worry about heating.

 

Going on my list of 'You guys are stupid for not doing this, duh'.

 

"Not that I'm picky or anything, but please tell me you have honey to put in the tea?" I ask in Elthina's general direction, holding my hand out for Schloomples to sniff. Giving me the side-eye, he wriggles around until his back faces me. Leliana gives me an apologetic shrug, smiling awkwardly.

 

"I have enough honey to feed a flock of hummingbirds," Elthina replies, making me smirk. Thank God. If I have to drink one more Thedosian plain Earl Grey, I'm going to throw my mug at someone's head. Preferably the person who handed it to me.

 

"Come, let's sit," Leliana says, her arms still filled with nug. She gestures to an assembly of dark red chairs in various sizes and models, standing on a red rug with a yellow sunburst in the middle. A small coffee table stands on the middle of the sunburst, piled with crocheted coasters. Eh. Elthina crochets? God, she's old.

 

As soon as Leliana drops herself on the chair, Schloomples jumps out of her arms and puts his snout to the ground, sniffling and shuffling around furniture. Leliana follows him with warm eyes, a proud smile on her lips.

 

She turns back to me. "He was a present from the Hero of Ferelden," she says, her voice warm.

 

"I know," I answer.

 

Her eyes sparkle and she leans forward, lips parted. "Yes, you would, wouldn't you? Mother Dorothea gave me your letter. Did you have a vision, as I did?"

 

Crap. I forgot about that, what with all the nug love and the diet-induced nug angst.

 

"Ahhh..." I hedge, leaning back. Don't avert your eyes. She's a bard. Tell one lie and she'll see through it. Slip the truth between the fantasy and stick to omitting stuff you don't want her to know. Otherwise, you're... Well, she wouldn't kill me outright, especially not inside a Chantry, right? Right?!

 

"Kind of. Multiple visions, I guess," I say, keeping my tone casual. I cross my left leg over my right leg and clasp my hands in my lap. Leliana watches me with wide eyes, almost breathlessly waiting for me to go on.

 

I shrug. "I got them while I was awake, not in dreams."

 

"Did they occur during your retreat, Meredith?" Elthina asks over her shoulder.

 

Crap, right, Elthina's right over there in the kitchen making tea.

 

Oh well, too late to worry about that now.

 

"They did," I say, nodding to myself. "Not all at the same time, though."

 

I crane my neck to look at her, frowning. “Elthina, what do you think about these kinds of things? Visions, and all that? I would’ve expected you to think I was delirious or something.”

 

Elthina chuckles and puts the last teacup on a platter. Joining us, she sets it down on the coffee table. She lowers herself in a chair, her spine straight, looking at us with her gray eyes.

 

“Don’t forget the Veil is thin here, especially in the Vinmark Mountains,” she says, stirring honey into her tea. I follow her example and pour a ridiculous amount of honey in my cup, making Leliana giggle.

 

Snorting, I shrug at her. “I like tea with my honey and sugar.”

 

Elthina shakes her head good-humoredly and takes a sip of her own tea.

 

She sets it down and leans back, steepling her fingers. “It’s possible a spirit of Faith gave you these visions, or perhaps an agent of the Maker,” she goes on.

 

With wide eyes, I stare at her.

 

Her lips pull up into a little smile. “Not all of us view spirits and demons as the same thing,” she points out, making me frown. “I thought we agreed on that.”

 

She crosses her ankles. “Take Anders and Justice, for example.” Leaning forward, she gives me a pointed look.  

 

Oh uh, busted. “Right…” I say, sitting on my hands so I won’t jump up and get the fuck out of Dodge.

 

“What about Justice?” I ask. “I mean, he hasn’t been on his best behavior, lately.”

 

Elthina shrugs. “And yet, you keep protecting him. Both of them. Karras ordered the Templars to hunt him down and execute him, but none followed his orders.”

 

Damn, I can’t keep the smugness out of my wide smirk. Good boys. And girls. Can’t forget Mallory, ‘Mangles’ and Ruth. Maybe I should talk to all of them one on one to get to know them. Ugh, that’ll take forever. Let alone all the mages I still have to talk to…

 

Something throbs behind my eyes, like a heavy baseline at a party. I rub over my forehead. My hand is warm from sitting on it and offers no relief. With a groan, I let it fall into my lap. This conversation might look important, it’s going nowhere. Nothing big is going to get decided today, not if I let it go on like it’s going now.

 

“Yeah, okay.” I swallow heavily and square my shoulders. “Speaking of spirits and demons: I want to change the Harrowing.”

 

Leliana sits back, tilting her head to the side. “I agree,” she says. “In Kinloch Hold, there was this one mage who believed she should be executed just for being a mage.”

 

Elthina raises her eyebrows.

 

Leliana meets Elthina’s eyes and goes on: “It’s cruel and wrong, and I honestly think the mages should be free. No more Circles, no more Harrowings, no more Templars.” Her eyes are fierce and pointed.

 

Thanks, Leliana, I love you.

 

Please never team up with Anders. Or Justice. Or Adrian. Yikes. That’d be one hell of a team.

 

“In fact, when the queen Anora Mac-Tir offered Mahariel a boon, she requested for the Circle of Ferelden to become independent. The queen promised she would do her best. If someone who was there, during the rebellion in Kinloch Hold, someone who faced demons and abominations more than once, if someone who killed the _Archdemon_ believes mages can live independent lives, then who are we to dictate they cannot?” she says.

 

Elthina leans back, steeples her fingers, and hums in answer, her lips pursed and her eyes distant.

 

With her lips pressed into a thin line and her brows creased into a frown, Leliana leans forward and speaks intently. “Don’t you see, Your Worship? I’ve fought alongside an apostate mage and a Circle mage, and I daresay Morrigan possessed more discipline than Wynne did. She certainly was a great aid during the last battle against the Darkspawn. Without her, we might not have survived in the first place.”

 

Blinking, I do a double-take at Leliana. There’s something in her eyes…

 

Crap. Either Mahariel told her, or she weaseled it out of Loghain or Morrigan, or she overhead somehow, but she knows. About the Dark Ritual. Maybe she even knows about Kieran.

 

“In the past,” Elthina says, “the Tevinter Imperium ruled the continent of Thedas. Would you have us succumb to the Imperium once again, Sister Leliana?”

 

Leliana smiles, brushing a braid behind her ear. “I… have yet to take my vows,” she confesses. I raise my eyebrows.

 

Elthina intertwines her fingers and lays them in her lap. “Perhaps, with your radical views, you’ll find life in the Chantry is hard for you,” she says, her voice kind.

 

Leliana’s jaw drops, tears fill her eyes, and her hands tremble. She pulls back, her eyes wide and her face ashen.

 

Elthina grabs Leliana’s hands and cups them between her own, chuckling. “No, no, that’s not what I meant to say,” she says. “Allow me to rephrase: I believe life as a _Sister_ or a _Mother_ may be hard on you. Life as a Templar, on the other hand…”

 

Holy mother of fuckety-fuck. Elthina, I’ll kiss your feet if you pull this off.

 

Leliana bites on her bottom lip and glances at me, wringing her hands. “I don’t know…”

 

Smiling reassuringly, I shrug. “You don’t have to decide right now. You might want to talk to-”

 

Argh shit, she can’t talk to Cullen. Not now. Think of someone else, quick.

 

“Talk to… ah… Sebastian! Yes, speak to Sebastian Vael. He joined the Order two weeks ago.”

 

With a frown, Leliana asks: “Sebastian Vael? The Prince of Starkhaven?”

 

I’m nodding like a bobblehead. Elthina finishes her tea and pours another cup for herself. I take a sip of my lukewarm tea and suppress a cringe. Blegh, cold tea.

 

“How is Sebastian doing, Meredith?” Elthina asks. “From time to time, he visits me, but your view might be refreshing to hear.”

 

Eh. Can’t tell her I’m never in the Gallows. Or that I avoid the Templars because their damn armor reminds me of Karras and gives me the creeps. Or that my decision to burn Karras on a pyre might have made him uncomfortable.

 

I manage a smile. “He’s been doing well. Thrask and Cullen are teaching him. I’ve seen him talk to Orsino, once or twice.”

 

Nope, I have not. But whatever.

 

Leliana arches an eyebrow and I put on my best poker face. Yeah, she knows something’s up. She might not be aware of what happened to me. Better to toss that out first possible moment. It’ll distract her from paying too much attention to what’s brewing in the Gallows. And maybe, just maybe, I can show her my list of Templars To Make More Dead and she’ll use her bard talents for murder.

 

Wasn’t Zevran in Kirkwall? And Elsa and Niana seem to have a few talents of their own, too. Couple that with murder-happy Justice and Anders, and Sebastian who won’t stand for corruption in the ranks, and I might just have myself a Templar Special Forces right under my nose.

 

Except Zev isn’t a Templar. Nor are Elsa and Niana…

 

Can Tranquil become Templars? No, wait, Lyrium didn’t have an effect on Tranquil, right? But it doesn’t have an effect on dwarves, either, while my Aeducan and Cadash both learned the Templar specialism. But that’s game universe.

 

… It’s still worth a try. And hey, maybe that’s the link that isn’t a link, or whatever the fuck Dagna had spoken about in Inquisition.

 

Dagna. Oh God, I’m so stupid. Why haven’t I thought about that before? I should get Dagna here as soon as possible.

 

Elthina’s amused chuckle brings me back to reality. Startled, I blink at her. “Sorry?” I ask vaguely.

 

With a smile, Elthina shakes her head. “I said: clutch that teacup any harder and it’s going to break,” she says, gesturing at my hands. My knuckles are white, my fingers pressed flat against the porcelain surface. Oops. Clearing my throat, I set it down on the platter.

 

“Sorry,” I mutter. Leliana feeds Schmloomples a sugar cube and scratches behind his ear.

 

Elthina smiles, squeezes my shoulder and pushes herself out of her seat. “I believe it is time for you to head back. Leliana, do you wish to stay here in the Chantry for the night, or do you wish for Meredith to show you around the Gallows and the barracks?”

 

Hey! She just offered a tour on my behalf! What if I wanted to spend my evening doing nothing, or hiking to the mountains, or in a hot bath? I school my face into an open expression when Leliana glances at me, and shrug.

 

“You’re welcome to stay for the night,” I say. “I’m sure I can arrange accommodations for you.”

 

Far, far away from Cullen.

 

Schloomples grunts, and I laugh. " _And_ for you, Schloomps.”

 

With a smile, Leliana shakes her head. “Tomorrow, perhaps. No offense, Meredith, but you look like you could use some rest.”

 

She’s right about that. “Yeah, I do,” I tell her. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Goodnight, Leliana. Your Worship.”

 

Elthina walks me out. “Call me Elthina. Your Worship makes me feel old and weary.”

 

With a smirk, I walk down the staircase. Where did Anders hide his bomb in the game? Stopping dead in my tracks, I look around. Each floor has a bunch of doors leading to other rooms, but most of them just hold covered tables and chairs, or beds and cupboards. I’m pretty sure one of them should be locked and off-limits to me, but the door opens on oiled hinges and reveals a brazier with Eternal Fire. At least, it’s what I think it is.

 

I stare at it for a moment. With a shrug, I turn around and close the door behind me. It’s not like I know what to do with this fire. Apart from maybe using it to stay warm.

 

It’s like I’m struck by lightning. Staying warm. _Eternal fire_. The pilgrimage route to Haven.

 

But no, I can’t barge into Elthina’s private quarters and demand Eternal Fire to place along a route that should be a test of endurance and willpower to the pilgrims. Damn.

 

What I _can_ do, is find a mage who can create Eternal Fire and send him or her on their way with a Templar for a guide. Preferably a Templar who’ll be around in Dragon Age 41 so I can ditch Roderick right away. Hm, good plan. Guess my talk with Elthina was useful after all.

 

Especially if I manage to convince Leliana to join the Templars. Can you imagine? Ser Leliana? I should make her a Seeker right away. Definitely.

 

And while I’m at it, I might as well write to Gereon Alexius and bombard him with enough tidbits about the future he’ll be salivating over the letter. If I can get Anders to put Felix through the Joining, and Felix survives, Alexius will be on my side from the start. Bam, no more Time Magic to fight for the Herald of Andraste. Plus, a Tevinter Magister on my side. And through Felix and Alexius, I can reach Dorian, and with Dorian, house Pavus.

 

What if House Alexius and House Pavus together are enough to force Danarius to release Varania and Fenris? What if Varania can study with either of them, instead of crazy Danarius? Holy crap, I’d prevent so much trouble in one go. Alexius will believe me, he’s way too eager to consider it a trap. And it’s not a trap, anyway. I just want Felix and Dorian. Dorian especially.

 

Thedas, here I come.

 

My head filled to the brim with plans and ideas, I jump over the cord on the ground floor and stride out of the Chantry with renewed purpose.


	17. Blue

**Poll results**

[ **Does Leliana join the Templar Order?** ](https://i.imgur.com/9y0ExJa.png)

[ **Does Meredith write and bluff to Gereon Alexius?** ](https://i.imgur.com/Pa6nrUg.jpg)

[ **Choose the second ThirdPOV chapter** ](https://i.imgur.com/SEl2WTV.jpg) **(You did it, guys. It tied. You’re getting** **three** **chapters on the 29th.)**

[ **How does Viscount Dumar react to Merethilda's sudden onset of friendly sanity (and her projects and changes in the Gallows)?** ](https://i.imgur.com/tEJ7E68.jpg)

[ **Who is the first mage to approach Merethilda?** ](https://i.imgur.com/JhnY2EL.jpg)

[ **What weapon does Merethilda use?** ](https://i.imgur.com/WMd3RYS.jpg)

[ **Choose a name for Thrask's sister** ](https://i.imgur.com/Mi0uiFm.jpg)

[ **Merethilda's first project** ](https://i.imgur.com/nQy6JVZ.jpg)

[ **The Hairy Heralds** ](https://i.imgur.com/T8MLqMw.jpg)

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 30 (13th of Cloudreach) 09:00 AM**

“Damnit! Damnit! Damnit!” My sword falls to the ground with a clang and I clutch my hand to my chest, my fingers aching where Thrask’s upward arc twisted my sword out of my grip. Thrask shakes his head, his shoulders slumped. Yeah, he doesn’t know what to do with me, either. I haven’t made an inch of progress since Karras.

 

“All right, again,” Thrask says, adjusting the grip on his sword and shield. With a huff, I smack my hair out of my eyes and bend at the waist to scoop my sword off the ground. Muscles pop and strain and I grit my teeth, twisting my back until it stops screaming in protest. From the sidelines, Stannard leans against the walkway wall, ankles crossed and arms folded over her chest.

 

With narrowed eyes, she lets out an exasperated sigh and throws her hands into the air. “Oh, for love of the Maker, woman, how hard can it be to stand your ground?!”

 

With narrowed eyes of my own, I glare at her. I don’t give a fuck if Thrask sees me glare at thin air. Shut the fuck up and give me advice instead of screaming at me, bitch please. It’s not like I don’t have a headache already. Pretty sure it’s going to turn into a migraine.

 

Instead of replying, Stannard tilts her head to the side and smirks when Cullen descends the courtyard stairs, his eyes sweeping over the grounds. I cringe. Thrask cringes. Even the Templars cringe.

 

My idea of grabbing Feynriel and dragging him here kind of hinge on the factor that Feynriel can be found, and it’s starting to look like a lost cause. The Sabrae clan might have shoved him to another clan in effing Antiva, for all I know. To keep him safe from the Templars. While we need him. So life sucks.

 

“And then you die,” Stannard taunts, throwing her head back and laughing. A cold blade rests on my neck and I growl and shove Thrask away. Yeah, yeah, I wasn’t paying attention. But how can anyone expect me to pay attention when I’m schizophrenic? And  Stannard just won’t shut up. Aaargh.

 

Thrask frowns at me and sweeps sweat off his brow. “Is something wrong, Meredith?” he asks. No shit, Sherlock. I close my eyes and shake my head, grinding my teeth together. At this rate, I’m going to have dust for molars by the end of the week. They’ll have to spoon feed me mush. I let my shoulders slump and toss the sword on the ground, blinking tears away. My head throbs. I suppress a retch.

 

“Nothing,” I mutter with a hollow voice before I whirl around and trudge off.

 

“Andraste’s smalls! Get back here at once, novice!” Thrask shouts, but I keep walking. He grunts and starts jogging after me. He puts his hand on my shoulder and I spin on the balls of my feet, bring my knee up and kick him in the balls, while simultaneously smacking his jaw with the mouse of my hand. Having the strength of an atrophied mouse, it's not a hard smack and Thrask rolls with the punch. He does wince when my knee hits him straight in the knickers.

 

At least training with Elsa is going well.  

 

“Ouch,” I snap, waving off the pain in my hand. Right, slapping someone hurts, no matter what part of your hand you use to pack the punch. Forgot about that.

 

Stannard snickers. I throw her a dirty glance. Cullen has stopped halfway down the stairs, his head tilted to the side in fake curiosity. Our eyes meet and I snap mine away. They prickle with tears and goddamnit, I’m done crying. Can’t everyone just leave me the fuck alone?

 

He doesn’t have a Brand on his forehead. It’s on the sole of his foot. At least they didn’t put it on his butt. Took him a few days before he was able to walk, at least that’s what Thrask told me, and Alistair keeps looking at me as if he wants to punch me in the gut, but at least Cullen can walk and do stuff now.

 

A newly made Tranquil? Terrifyingly numb and unresponsive. They just there and do nothing, while tears still roll down their cheeks from their branding. The occasional tremors and twitches caused by residual pain are awful.

 

I pass by Cullen when I stomp up the stairs and he lays a hand on my arm. My muscles lock and I gape at him. The only sound that comes out of my mouth is a pathetic little wheeze. My heart wants to burst out of my chest, beating in my thumbs and toes and behind my eyes and on both sides of my neck. Gah. He’s just a Tranquil, he won’t hurt me. It’s a miracle he’s doing something like grabbing me on his own initiative.

 

They have to teach Tranquil how to walk. They have to teach them how to talk. They have to teach them how to eat and drink and how to clean themselves and by God, I want to slap the Lord Seeker who thought: ‘Hey, let’s make a brand out of lyrium and see what happens when we slap it on someone!’

 

“Have I done something wrong, Knight-Commander?” Cullen asks. Don’t cringe. Just don’t. I cringe and squeeze my eyes shut. I clear my throat and force myself to meet his eyes.

 

“No, Cullen,” I say. My voice breaks. Maker, Andraste, Luscacan or whoever the fuck rules the universe, I’ll go down on my knees and beg. I’ll give you anything you want and more. My life, my body, my soul. Just make sure Cullen gets cured. This… I can’t handle this.

 

“You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s me, I’m just… irritated.” Understatement of the year. When no-one could find Feynriel, I went out on my own to hunt him down. Nothing. I searched for Moth, in hopes of finding Feynriel, or Solas or Felassan or any Dreamer in the Fade. Nothing. I can’t even find Moth. Ser Leon hasn’t woken up yet, so he’s no help, either.

 

There are Dreamers in Tevinter, like Aurelian Titus, but hell will freeze over before I throw myself on my knees in front of that guy to beg for his help. Alistair will snap my head off when he finds out Maric has been held captive by Aurelian. If he’s even in Aurelian’s custody yet. Didn’t he spend the first years in that Antivan prison place?

 

Ugh. I keep shoving it away and keeping myself busy with other things, but there’s absolutely no valid reason for me to not talk to Zevran about this. As soon as possible, I should send Zevran out to break into that prison and bring Maric here. Or I should write Loghain Mac-Tir. Yeah, that’ll work. An anonymous tip. Loghain would invent spaceships and fly to Mars if an anonymous tip placed Maric on Mars.

 

Heh, Maric on Mars. Nice band name.

 

I yank my arm out of Cullen’s loose grip and give a half-hearted wave by way of goodbye. Thrask doesn’t pursue me, instead, he meets Cullen at the base of the stairs. I shake my head and push open the doors to the Gallows, and run smack dab into Orsino. The stacks of books in his hands make it impossible for him to steady himself and he drops them in favor of grabbing me before I fall headfirst into the floor. Chuckling, he steadies me. The smile drops from his face when he meets my eyes.

 

“Meredith,” he mutters softly, his eyebrows pulled up in concern. “What happened?”

 

“Yes, Meredith, do tell him you fucked up with Cullen over there. Tell him all about your failed little experiment. And while you’re at it, tell him he’s talking to a complete stranger as well. Let us see how concerned he is about your wellbeing after hearing that,” Stannard says, her tone sharp as a whip.

 

I close my eyes and press my lips together, scrunching up my face. My hands have ended up on Orsino’s waist, probably to stop my fall, and I’m pretty sure I’m digging my nails into his sides. If I am, he doesn’t protest.

 

“Come with me,” he says, his voice gentle and soft. His hand slides towards my shoulder blades and I tremble while he guides me inside. Bile rises in my throat and I want to hurl myself into the nearest wall to make the pain go away. Stannard’s footsteps echo behind us through the empty hallway. I clench my hands into fists at my sides to keep myself from turning around and clawing her eyes out.

 

“Orsino, I- I- I-” I stutter. I don’t get any further. There’s a lump in my throat I can’t swallow around and lungs won’t expand and why is everything so dark, like it’s going to rain, but those dark clouds can’t be inside the Gallows, can they? I wring my hands together in front of my chest and shove one fingernail underneath into my thumb, underneath its nail. It stings and light explodes behind my eyes. My throat burns from breathing in so quickly and I cough, my lungs burning or air.

 

“Uh, don’t let me fall. Please don’t let me fall,” I choke out. Yes, an entire sentence! Doesn’t change a thing about how my legs feel like they’ve turned into loose sand, or that my vision is collapsing underneath the onslaught of stars and fireworks. Am I even still breathing? I think I’m still breathing. My heart’s still beating, that’s for sure. Even if it skips a beat every third beat.

 

That’s not good, is it? It’s supposed to be regular. Like breathing. Breathing is supposed to be a regular thing. My breath in and out isn’t supposed to melt together like this.

 

“Maker’s breath, sit down, sit down,” Orsino urges me, pushing me down against the wall. I whimper and he lets go of me immediately, even though he wasn’t pushing me down with his entire body or anything inappropriate like that. My butt hits the floor, my lower back touches the grainy plasterwork and I pull up my legs and shove my head between my knees. Cupping my hands, I press them over my mouth and nose, squeezing my eyes shut.

 

“Yes, good, like that. Just breathe,” Orsino mutters, one hand rubbing over my back in soft circles. Good thing I’m not wearing my armor. Can’t wear it yet, it’s too heavy and it has the damn Sword of Mercy on the breastplate. The first time I wore it again, I almost undressed right there in the courtyard to scratch my skin off my body from the irritation it made me feel.

 

Instead, I’m wearing leather, and Orsino is probably using fire magic to heat up his hand because heat spreads through my back. Taut muscles shudder and relax and I bite back a moan at the last second. I crane my neck to the side and a muscle pops. Orsino winces at the sound, and strokes over my trapezium with a finger, stroking warmth into the agitated muscles. This time I do moan, because fuck that, it’s the first time years those muscles are relaxing. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply.

 

Orsino turns my head the other way, his hand cupping my cheek to turn, and repeats the process on my shoulder and neck. When he’s done, I’m practically a sack of sand. I’m sure as hell not standing up and risking agitating anything.

 

“You’re going to have to carry me,” I mutter, cracking open one eye to look at him. His lips tug into half a smile and he shakes his head, stepping back.

 

“No,” he says, the amusement still there. “You’re perfectly capable of getting up and walking yourself. That was a fire spell and a rejuvenation spell. The effects will last for a while. Take a nap, Meredith. You’ll feel better, afterward.”

 

Rolling my eyes, I shove myself to my feet and wobble a bit, steadying myself against the wall.

 

Mustering up a smile, I nod at him. “Thanks, Orsino. I think I needed that. Come and talk after my nap? Dragons?”

 

He frowns, regarding me silently for a few seconds. With a nod, he says: “Of course. I’ll see you in two hours. Is the library suitable?”

 

“Sure,” I answer, and trudge toward the left corridor, the one connecting the Gallows to the Templar Barracks. I’m taking that nap, that’s for sure. Two hours might be on the short side, though.

 

**Day 30 (13th of Cloudreach) 02:15 PM**

 

“-little flap here, at the base of their throat, allows them to dose their flames when they keep their eggs warm,” Orsino says. We’re in the library, a dusty, dark place without natural light, somewhere in the Gallows’ belly. The musty, stuffy scent of books and dust tickles my nostrils and makes me want to sneeze every three minutes. Bright, yellow glowstones emulate natural light, like the Wake-Up Light alarm I used to have back home. It’s not good enough. OHS Inspection would keel over at the sight.

 

I frown. “And is it the female's job to keep the eggs warm or does the male do it?” I ask.

 

Orsino smiles. “Both of them take turns hunting and tending to the nest. If the dragon hasn't laid her eggs over a hot spring or another source of heat, that is.”

 

Dragons invented emancipation. Good for them.

 

“In which case they…?” I trail off.

 

The smirk he gives me is devious at best. “They do their best to lay another batch of eggs. They’ll hunt and dry meat. And lay in the sun and sleep.”

 

They're also baby-boomers. Hellooooo Thedosian millennials.

 

“Hold on, if they dry their meat, does that mean they plan? They know they'll have more mouths to feed and take precautions?” I ask, leaning forward. My shoulder brushes against his and he inches away. My stomach twists into knots. I’m not contagious, damn it. I won’t cry bloody murder every time someone touches me.

 

Yeah, okay, I’m prone to vomiting up whatever I ate when someone gets too familiar, but that’s why I eat light meals. That and sword practice is going at a snail’s pace, so I don’t need heavy meals, anyway.

 

“What do they make their nests from?” I ask, shoving my worries to the background of my mind. Shoo, down and shiver. Go chill with Hockey Mask Chainsaw Man in Alcatraz. Aenor. Or whatever Thedosian’s equivalent of Alcatraz is.

 

Frowning, Orsino flips through the pages, his bottom lip sucked in and pinched between his teeth.

 

No, I’m not staring at his lips. I just noticed it. Leave me alone. I can stare at whatever I want to stare at.

 

“Aha! Here it is: branches, wool or any other fabric they can find, plant matter, grass, and anything of the color blue,” he says.

 

“So… basically they make their nests one giant torch. To raise their fire-breathing offspring. Logic,” I say dryly. Orsino chuckles.

 

With a mischievous smirk, he glances at me. “Any ideas on why they would use blue things for their nest?”

 

Rolling my eyes, I uncross my legs and wiggle pinpricks into my toes. I drum my fingers on the table.

 

“Gee, I have no idea. Is it because they can’t see the color blue?” I ask, feigning wonder.

 

Orsino lets the smirk fall off his face, the crinkles around his eyes disappear, and he gives me a nod.

 

“Yes, a very good guess, student,” he says.

 

I blink. He manages his straight face for two seconds. I chuckle in amusement. The corners of his lips twitch and I smirk. He looks at me through lidded eyes, the smallest smile on his face. Another two seconds, and I snort and shake my head. He grins and I bump my shoulder into his.

 

Damn it. I can’t ask him what class he teaches. It’s something I’m supposed to know. Unless Stannard never paid attention to anything mage-related. Doubtful. She probably watched them like a hawk.

 

A quick rap on the door breaks the good mood, and we both twist around in our seats. Alistair shuts his gaping mouth, hand still raised to knock, and smiles brightly, a blush on his cheeks.

 

“Ah, sorry. I don’t want to interrupt anything,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. I raise my eyebrows.

 

With wide eyes, he holds out his hands. “Not that anything is going on here, obviously. But, um, Knight-Commander-”

 

“Meredith,” I correct him. Alistair’s eyes snap back to me.

 

“Meredith. All right. There’s someone here to see you. I think it’s about… children?”

 

“Children,” I repeat doubtfully.

 

Alistair blinks rapidly and lets his arms fall to his sides. “No, wait, I think she said ‘Orphans’. Yes, orphans, not her own children. Ha, imagine her having fifteen children, that’d be one house filled to the brim. And the kitchen would be a permanent mess. And just imagine having to make their beds every day and cleaning up after their messes and-”

 

“Does he do this often?” Orsino asks in a whisper. I hide my snicker behind a hand and look at him through the corner of my eyes.

 

“Yep. He’ll snap out of it on his own, eventually,” I whisper back. Still twisted in his seat, Orsino clasps his hands together on its edge, pulls his face into something resembling seriousness, and watches.

 

“Her name is Evelina. I, ah, told her to wait in your office. Alone. I mean, she’s with Elsa and Niana- no, wait, Elsa’s with Zev, doing Maker knows what," Alistair says, his cheeks becoming redder.

 

He shakes his head. “But she didn’t bring her orphans. To your office. They… might be watching an impromptu Templar jousting tournament in the courtyard right now. Might have been my idea. Might have put on my Duncan voice and shouted ‘Commenceth the grand tourney!’ and ran for the hills. Ha. Is commenceth even a word?”

 

I work myself out of my seat, my left foot missing Orsino’s head by an inch, and clap Alistair on the shoulder. "Let's get going then."

 

I smirk at Orsino, who blushes. D’awww. “Thank you, Orsino. I’ll see you around?”

 

He brushes his thumbs over his index fingers in slow circles. “Of course, Meredith. My door is always open.”

 

With a nod and a smile, I gesture for Alistair to lead the way.

 

“I don’t want to pry-” Alistair begins.

 

“Then don’t pry,” I interrupt.

 

He chuckles and shakes his head. “I guess you’re right. Sorry. Ah. So… How’s Cullen doing?”

 

Stopping dead in my tracks in the middle of the empty hallway, I hold out my arm to stop him. He walks right into it and jumps back.

 

With a sigh, I rub over my arms, biting on the inside of my cheek. “I need a Dreamer,” I tell him.

 

“Or I need a way to get into the Fade to attract a spirit. But I don’t know how to-”

 

“I know how,” Alistair says. I stare at him.

 

God, I’m so stupid. Of course. The ritual. Gah, brains, seriously? I knew this the entire damn time! Fuck my life. I narrow my eyes and clench my hands into fists.

 

“Er, well, First Enchanter Irving knows how. And Jowan might- Ah, just forget that name, I shouldn’t have mentioned him. No need to drag in a blood- I’m just going to put my feet into my mouth, now.”

 

I smile and shake my head, huffing out a breath through my nose. “Believe me, Alistair, there’s a blood mage coven in every Circle,” I say dryly.

 

He slaps his thighs and blows out a breath. “Yes, well. Anyway. Interesting story I heard from Varric and Isabela-”

 

My shoulders slump. “Uuuuugh,” I groan, rubbing a hand over my forehead. “Those two. I bet the entire tavern knows. About me.”

 

Pressing his lips together, Alistair gives a tight nod. “That’s about right. I mean, Corff knows. Which means most of the tavern-goers know.”

 

He holds up his hands. “But no worries! Most of them are drunk and half-asleep! They’ll think Corff is just telling them a nice story to sell more ale!”

 

Considering the fact Seekers haven’t swarmed all over Kirkwall like angry bees, he might have a point.

 

“I think I disagree with his selling tactics,” I mutter.

 

“Which is why I wanted to know: If you’re not from Thedas, and you don’t agree with keeping mages captive- I’m still on the fence about this, myself, so no judgment there- then for love of the Maker, why did you Tranquilize Cullen?”

 

He looks up at me, his lips pressed together and pulled into a grimace. His hands are clutched into fists at his sides, and he squares his shoulders. His eyes burn.

 

“It’s complicated,” I begin. He snorts. “And it’s not my story to tell, either. You know what happened in Kinloch Hold?”

 

His jaws set, and he nods. “I was there. Saw it all, down to the corruption on the walls and floors. Sticky stuff. Spent hours scrubbing my boots afterward.”

 

I roll my eyes. Focus, Alistair.

 

“Cullen watched his friends get tortured, enthralled, slaughtered. It’s not something you just walk away from, no matter how well he managed to hide it. This,” I hold out my hands as if I’m putting something down on an imaginary table.

 

“This offers him a relief from all that. Sleep without nightmares. And when he’s ready, whatever spirit I can find is going to touch his soul in the Fade, and he’ll be himself again. Hopefully a less troubled version of himself.”

 

And maybe that was my desired end result all along. Screw all the morally right talk about keeping others safe. About ditching favoritism. Point is: I know Cullen. I don’t know the five-hundred-something mages that live here, not yet. Until I know them, Cullen’s going to come first.

 

First, right there next to Hawke’s gang of misfits, Alistair, Orsino, my Tranquil, and a bunch of people I won’t even meet for ten more years.

 

Ten long years. Ugh. Where’s the fast-forward button? The trigger-a-time skip button?

 

His eyes a little softer, Alistair nods. “We trained together, in the same monastery. He broke someone’s nose when they mocked me for… I don’t even remember what for. We’ve been… were friends since. Even though he was rearing to become a Templar and I… I just wanted to get out of there.”

 

Scoffing, he gestures at himself. His shiny Templar armor, the sheath with the standard-issue Templar sword, the flask of lyrium hanging from his belt. It’s full. Thank fuck.

 

“And here I am,” he says, with a barked laugh. Shaking his head, he shrugs and strides towards my office.

 

“When Duncan Conscripted me into the Grey Wardens, I thought my life would be simple. Killing Darkspawn, bleeding them- Uh, drinking lots of ale, stuffing my face with food, training, and everything.”

 

I have to take two steps to keep up with him at the pace he’s walking. That’s okay.

 

Alistair snorts. “And then a giant dragon swoops down from the sky and bam! Last remaining Senior Grey Warden in Ferelden.”

 

He shakes his head. “I should’ve asked Greagior if I could take Cullen with me, but he didn’t look healthy. So I thought: I’ll let him recover, and contact him when it’s all over. If I’m alive. And if there is an ‘over’.”

 

He laughs. “Only to get my ass kicked out of Ferelden. And that bastard-”

 

Glancing at me, he blushes. “Ah, pardon my language.”

 

With a smirk, I roll my eyes. “Believe me, I’ve heard worse. And you should hear me when I stub my toe against my desk. Again.”

 

Alistair laughs. “Yes, that’s the worst, isn’t it? Strange how we collect battle scars and brush everything off with ‘It’s just a flesh wound!’ even though we’re about to keel over. Stub my toe against something? Yep, I’m dying.”

 

Side-step a tirade about Loghain? Done.

 

“Try having long hair and catching it on something. Or pulling out hairs to keep your eyebrows in control,” I say dryly.

 

Alistair winces. “Don’t tell Leliana, but I almost cried when she insisted on ‘fixing my werewolf eyebrows’.”

 

I smirk at him. “My lips are sealed. Won’t tell her when she hops in for a visit.”

 

His smirk fades and he rubs over the back of his neck. “Yeah, I should talk to her sometime. Maybe.”

 

We’ve reached the door to my office, and he takes a bow. “Here we are, my lady.”

 

Laughing, I shake my head. “Thanks. And thank you, for asking me about Cullen. I’m way too used to people who bottle everything up and start yelling at me out of the blue,” I say.

 

If people just told me what bothered them, I could’ve done something about it. Instead, they assumed I was doing shit on purpose and mentally ranted themselves into a fit of rage before exploding. Those incidents always left me stumped and at a loss. Frustration and anger would follow much later when I realized how unfair this was.

 

Alistair grimaces. “Reminds me of Isolde.” He mock-shivers. I suppress a smile, my hand resting on my door. Taking it as his cue to leave, Alistair mock-salutes me and gestures to the courtyard.

 

“Better make sure the kids don’t break Thrask,” he says, beaming. I smile and wave when he walks towards the front doors. Laughing, cheering and screaming children’s voices drift through the gap when he slips through them and fades away when they fall shut again.

 

So. Someone who wants to talk to me about a collection of orphans. That’s going to be easy-peasy. Still, I cross my fingers behind my back just in case when I pull the door open.

 

**Day 30 (13th of Cloudreach) 2:30 PM**

 

The woman who sits in the chair in front of my desk jumps up and bows her head respectfully. Ugh, stupid courtesies. Can I ban them yet? For that matter, can I start a democracy yet? Her eyes are light brown with a tinge of green, accentuating the dark circles and worry lines underneath her eyes. Her jaw is square, her cheeks are a bit gaunt, her lips almost entirely lack a cupid’s bow to emphasize the upper arc of her upper lip. Her bangs are carelessly shoved to the left of her face, falling over her left eyebrow. All in all, she looks like a stern woman, especially with her reddish-brown hair cut close to the nape of her neck.

 

“Knight-Commander-” she begins in a soft, demure voice.

 

“Meredith,” Elsa interrupts her.

 

The woman blinks. “Meredith, then. Forgive me for interrupting, I’m sure you have other matters to attend to.”

 

Oh for fuck’s sake, spit it out. Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t snap at her.

 

“Look at her!” Stannard bristles. A muscle underneath my left eye twitches. She leans against the wall behind me, on the right side of the door. That much I can catch from the corner of my eyes before I force them back to the mysterious woman.

 

“Not at all,” I say, giving her a reassuring smile. I nod at the chair she jumped out of. “Please, take a seat.”

 

She does, and I drop myself into my own chair on the other side of the desk. Pouring two glasses of water, I slide one towards her and set the other down in front of me. Clasping my hands together on my desk, I lean forward and raise my eyebrows.

 

“You wished to speak to me about orphans, messere…?”

 

Her eyes widen and she bites on her bottom lip. Crap, I should’ve addressed her as serah instead of messere. Well, nothing to do about it now.

 

“Evelina,” she says, gazing down at her hands. “My name is Evelina. I lived in Kinloch Hold before the Blight struck. I… fled from the Circle, from the Blight, you see.”

 

I nod for her to go on.

 

“I meant to return when things settled, but when I got back, they wouldn’t open the doors for me. One of the Templars told me they’d sent for the Annulment and told me to run away, as far as I could. They just let me go. I don’t know why. Maybe it was because I came from the outside and all their troubles were on the inside?” She blinks, her eyes glittering with tears.

 

“That’s probably part of it, yes,” I answer gently. “And then? Where did you go?”

 

Evelina shrugs, sniffs, and wipes over her eyes. I open drawers, rummage through them and roll my eyes in frustration. Finally, I find a crumpled handkerchief, mercifully clean, and hand it to her. With wide eyes, she chokes out a laugh and dabs her eyes, before blowing her nose. She bunches it into a ball and clenches it in her right hand.

 

“At first the Templar tending the ferry wouldn’t take me off the island, so I promised him a place in my bed for the night if he did.” She laughs, shaking her head. “He showed up that night, muttered something about ‘prey’, shoved a sack of coin into my hands and left without saying another word.”

 

Morrigan +1, Templar -1 friendship.

 

“How strange,” I mutter. Evelina smiles and sniffs.

 

“Yes, I thought so too. But his coin allowed me to purchase a horse from the innkeeper. I rode to Amaranthine and rented a room.”

 

She tilts her head to the side, her eyes distant. Her voice trembles a little. “There was this box next to the door, for donations to children who’d lost their parents to the Darkspawn, or bandits. I’m not sure. I left a coin in there and…”

 

Evelina chuckles and drags a hand through her hair. “I don’t know why, but I had nothing better to do than sit and wait, I guess. At night, a boy came in and started counting the coins. He weaseled a few loaves of stale bread out of the innkeeper’s hands and bought a few bottles of ale with the coin he’d gathered, and left.”

 

Smart kid. Though he probably picked the guy’s pocket if he was truly an entrepreneur. At least that’s what I would’ve done.

 

Evelina smiles. “I followed him and told the guards he was mine when they tried to arrest him for stealing. They just shrugged, took a bottle of ale each, told us to be careful at night and left. I asked him his name,”

 

She scoffs, closing her eyes for a second. “He told me it was Cricket. Cricket! I asked him if Grasshopper, Firefly, and Mantis were hiding somewhere in the city and he nodded and took me to them. FThere were sixteen of them. One of them was just…”

 

With trembling hands, she depicts a space of around ten centimeters between them. “A babe. A small babe, almost ready to be weaned. They’d been feeding her goats milk and mashed bread and, Maker preserve her, wild mushrooms they’d scavenged from the corners of warehouses!”

 

Grimacing, I wince and drink from my water. Yikes. The kid must be a lucky charm, then. All of them could’ve died eating Madcap by mistake. Or Ghoul’s cap. Or any other creepy poisonous mushrooms.  

 

Evelina bites on her bottom lip, blinking rapidly. She clutches the soggy handkerchief to her chest and lets out a broken sob, shaking her head.

 

“They called her Ladybug. She died on the voyage to Kirkwall.” Tears make her cheeks red and blotchy, wrinkles appear on her chin when she pouts before pressing her lips together. I shove back my chair, round the desk and put my arms around her. With a sob, she digs her fingers into my back and trembles. Her tears soak my shoulder and her heaving sobs are way too loud in my ears, but I grit my teeth and take it.

 

“Shh,” I whisper, rubbing circles on her back. “You did your best. She knows that. The Maker is taking care of her now.”

 

He better be, else I’ll kick His ass into next Tuesday.

 

“Deep breaths, Evelina,” I mutter, rubbing her back. “Yeah, like that. And of course, I’ll help you with the rest of the orphans. As a matter of fact…”

 

I lean back and smile at her. “I believe there’s plenty of room in the Circle for all of them and then some. There’s a lay-sister who visits from time to time. I’m sure she’d be delighted to help out. I hope your orphans don’t mind being followed around by a clingy nug.”

 

Her mouth hanging open, Evelina stares at me. “A… nug?” she asks.

 

I laugh. “Image a wrinkly, bald piglet and you’re pretty close. Now, how about we go round them up and bring them here? I’ll tell the cooks to prepare a big dinner.”

 

None of that blegh gruel they usually make, either. Maker knows that stuff should get banned forever.

 

**Day 30 (13th of Cloudreach) 5:30 PM**

 

Anders bursts into the mess hall, red-faced and panting, clutching at his chest.

 

“Deh… So sorry for interrupting but I need to borrow Meredith for a minute. Or a few hours. It depends, really, on how quickly we sort out this mess…” he says, his voice lilting to the high end, his lips twisted into a grimace.

 

Glancing at Evelina, who sits next to me, a three-year-old mouse-haired boy wriggling around on her lap, his stubby fingers shoved into his mouth, I smile apologetically. Shoving back my chair, my eyes dart through the mess hall. Evelina takes care of around fifteen orphans, five of which are throwing food at each other, three are curled up in random Templar’s laps taking a post-dinner nap (one of the Templars is anxiously looking around with wide eyes and sweating, practically begging for divine intervention), the others are everywhere and nowhere. I lost track of Walter and Cricket an hour ago, but it’s not like they can get into the armory, so they should be fine.

 

Maybe I should let them all loose in the repository. Oops, did they break every phylactery in the chamber? So sorry about that, truly. Such a tragic little incident. Kids will be kids, am I right? Yeah, they aren’t to blame. Now, about making new phylacteries… I heard mixing them up with chicken blood makes them more potent. Maybe it’s something we should try out? Let’s do all of them at once, efficiency, you know. Very important.

 

Ugh, stop getting lost in your own head, Grethilda.

 

Shaking my head and rolling my eyes at myself, I meet Anders in front of the double doors. He licks his lips and wrings his fingers together, shuffling around.

 

“What happened to ‘Get out of my life’?” I ask dryly.

 

His eyes drop to the floor. I swear he pouts. With a frown, he looks back up at me.

 

“Good news and bad news. Which do you want first?” he asks.

 

With a snort, I put my hands on my hips. “The bad news, obviously. I’ll always want the bad news first.”

 

Anders grimaces. “He’s asleep.”

 

… O-kay.

 

“Who, Ser Leon? Ask any Templar here and they’ll tell you the same.”

 

He mutters: “You did ask for the bad news first…”

 

He shakes his head, dragging his hands through his hair. “No, Feynriel. Hawke found Feynriel, which is the good news. Bad news: he’s asleep and we can’t wake him up.”

 

“Aaaaargh,” I let out. Anders starts and blinks at me in confusion. I slap my hands in front of my eyes and let out a deep, exasperated breath.

 

“Okay, fine. We’ll fix this,” I say, clenching my hands into fists. “One condition, though. I’m taking Cullen.”

 

Anders blinks, opens his mouth and closes it again. “Why… forget it, I’m not sure I want to know. All right, let’s go. We’ll just have to pick up Merrill and Varric on the way and then we’re good to go.”

 

I wave at the perplexed Templars in the mess hall and shut the door behind us.

 

**Day 30 (13th of Cloudreach) 6:00 PM**

 

“Where are we going, exactly?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at Cullen. He follows us without comment, always two steps behind.  

 

“The Dalish Encampment,” Anders says, tugging his pack off his shoulders and rummaging around in it. “Lyrium, sleeping potions, stamina potions… healing potions, good. I’m all set. You?” he asks, looking down at me.

 

I follow his eyes. I’m wearing breeches, a shirt, and a leather jacket. And shoes, don’t forget the shoes. Though I might as well ditch them since we’re headed to the Dalish. And it’s not like I can’t imagine on armor in the Fade.

 

Anders walks right into me when I stop dead in my tracks. Fuck. The Fade. Where I have zilch control over myself. That’s not going to work out well.

 

“What- oomphf,” Anders mutters when he barrels into me. His hands come down on my shoulders and he nearly pushes me over. Cullen’s even tread comes to a pause.

 

“Uh, Anders, remember how I told you I have no control over my actions when I’m in the Fade?”

 

“How did you know we have to- never mind. Keeper Marethari says the ritual will fix that. Otherwise, Hawke wouldn’t have asked me to bring Varric.”

 

Right, good call. Anders’s breath tickles my neck and I step out of his grasp and keep walking, weaving my way through Lowtown’s stalls.

 

“Good. Let’s get Merrill and Varric,” I say. Huzzah for my poker face and tremble free voice.

 

Do I really have to face Hawke? Do I? Can’t I just go back home and crawl into bed? Can I press the skip cutscene button? Pretty please with a cherry on top?

 

When nothing of the sort happens, I pout. Life sucks, deal with it and move on, Grethilda. You’ve got a bunch of demons to fight and a Dreamer to save. And a Cullen to de-Tranquilize.

 

Woooh boy, it sucks to be me. Or Cullen. Poor guy, he’s in for a shock. 


	18. Friday

**Poll results**

[ **What happens to Feynriel?** ](https://i.imgur.com/ibDyUdk.jpg)

[ **Who falls to a demon in the Fade?** ](https://i.imgur.com/gwteTSM.jpg)

[ **Seamus's personality** ](https://i.imgur.com/KJmlCjN.jpg)

[ **When they wake up, they find out…** ](https://i.imgur.com/mLs1FU5.jpg)

[ **Anonymous tip to Loghain, yay or nay?** ](https://i.imgur.com/GXhkK9g.jpg)

[ **Arishok's view on Hawke** ](https://i.imgur.com/OVYlXuS.jpg)

[ **Worst nightmare** ](https://i.imgur.com/f24CvTt.jpg)

[ **A deal with Torpor** ](https://i.imgur.com/DyENIij.jpg)

 

* * *

 

 

**The Fade**

With loud creaking and groaning, my door splinters under physical assault. Shooting up in my bed, I clutch the covers in front of my chest, air stinging my rough throat. The door bangs against the wall, hanging lopsided in its creaking hinges, and Alrik steps through the cloud of dust, waving it away with his hands. With a grunt, he coughs and brushes sawdust out of his hair, his lips pulled into an annoyed grimace. My eyes dart through my room. The metal weapon stands are gone, my armor is nowhere to be seen. Certainties comforting buzzing is missing.

 

“Demon, you are under arrest and will be taken in for execution,” Alrik says, his blade whistling when he draws it out of its sheath.

 

Yeah, no thanks. I swing myself out of bed, flinching when my bare feet touch splinters and coarse wood on the floor. Alrik strides into my room and makes a grab for me, and I duck out of the way, rolling and hitting the wall with my shoulder blades. My head bashes against the wall and I bite my tongue and spit out blood. Rubbing over the back of my head, I jump to my feet. Alrik whirls around and raises his blade in my direction. My eyes flick to the door, my throat constricting when Karras appears in the doorway, smirking sardonically.

 

With nowhere else to go, I lunge into the bathroom, slam the door shut and lock it, leaning my forehead against the smooth wooden surface. It drowns out the shouting on the other side, and I pant rapidly. Think, Grethilda, think. They found out about me, somehow. Why else would they be here in the middle of the night?

 

The lock rattles, metal screeches and I back away, digging my nails into my hips through my nightgown. I drag them over my arms, dig them into my palms, shove my fingers into my mouth and clamp them between my teeth until tears blur my eyes. Now is not the time to have a full blown panic attack. I need to do something, but what?

 

The only thing suitable to bar the door is the stone used to cover up the toilet hole. I snort when I’ve picked it up and set it against the door diagonally. It’s a fool’s attempt, fit to buy me a few more seconds at best. Think, think.

 

Chewing on my cheek, I look around. There are plenty of bottles of oil on the bathtub, but I don’t have a fire to use it as a weapon. Besides, if a had a fire, then what? Breathe fire by holding the oil into my mouth and spitting it out over a torch, hoping it’ll work the same as lamp oil? Great way to set me on fire.

 

“Open the damn door, demon! Surrender and we won’t harm you any more than necessary!”

 

Uh hu. I believe the word Alrik had used was ‘execution’. But sure, they won’t hurt me. Right. Of course.

 

The window in my bathroom is too small to crawl through. I can hide in my bathtub, but they’d discover me quickly. Smash all the bottles of oil, toss a torch into the bathtub, and you’ve got one burning Grethilda coming up. No thanks.

 

Maybe I should grab a bottle of oil and drink it. It might kill me.

 

But then I’d be dead. Again. I’d rather be alive. Besides… I have work to do? With… Kirkwall? Frowning, I glare at the door. I forgot something important, but what? I curl my tongue up and keep it in a curl with my teeth. It’s right there, on the tip of my tongue, in the back of my mind. Pain stabs behind my left eye and I sway and press my hands over my eyes.

 

Gritting my teeth, I snatch the elongated stone away from the door. Fuck this, I’m going to bash in their hea-

 

The door is kicked in and slams against my head before I get the chance to straighten myself. Light explodes behind my eyes, the stone chafes over my palms when its momentum and weight shift and it flies out of my hands. I hit my head against the stone sink, right on the temple, and sprawl on the floor with a groan. Working my legs under me, I shake my head and retch when the world sways with the movement. My eyes roll around uncontrollably, the world too blurred to take in.

 

A thick, calloused hand grabs me at my hair in the nape of my neck and pulls me up. My scalp screams with white-hot pain and I wheeze out a whimper. Alrik chuckles and gives another yank. White fireworks explode in my eyes, a muscle in my neck pops and overstretches, screaming with pain. My legs flop out from underneath me and Alrik gives another yank to keep me upright. I scramble to regain my footing so he won’t pull my hair out of my scalp, dangling on the edge of consciousness.

 

Cold manacles click around my wrists, my hands wrenched behind my back, my shoulders burning in their sockets. I scream until my throat is raw and Alrik bashes my head against the wall. Blood drips from my hairline down my temple and over my right cheek. The world darkens and blurs again, alternating between ‘too dark to see anything’ and ‘slightly less dark’. Twisting my arms further, Alrik snorts and forces me to walk in front of him. I stub my toe against the threshold and trip. My jaw snaps and pops when my chin hits the floor, my molars clash together and shatter, as do my canines and front teeth.

 

“Grab her other arm,” Alrik says, and Karras does so. I spit out blood while they drag me through the hallway, heedless of the splinters that catch on my skin. I wince at every pinprick. I work my tongue around in my mouth and spit out pieces of tooth, grimacing and shivering when every hard piece comes into contact with my lips. Some of them are sharp and cut, filling my mouth with more blood.

 

Sagging, I try to make myself as heavy as possible, but they lift me up and drag me with them as if I’m light as a feather.

 

“First Enchanter,” Alrik grunts when we pass Orsino’s office. I glance to the left out of the corners of my eyes. Familiar toes curl around the threshold.

 

I cough, gagging on my own blood, and turn my head to the side to spit it out before turning back to Orsino. Craning my neck, I look up at him, blinking against the world-shattering pain throbbing against my skull. My chest constricts and my heart beats against my chest, almost painfully.

 

Orsino’s eyes are cold and hard. He glares at me, the corners of his lips pointing downwards, stern lines around his mouth and nose.

 

“Orsino, please, help!” My voice is hoarse and I hiccup, gagging and choking on blood. Retching, I spit it out next to his feet. His feet, blurred through the tears in my eyes, retreat from the threshold and the door closes in front of my face.

 

Alrik snorts and Karras laughs. “Did you honestly think he’d help you? After you deceived him like that?” Karras asks.

 

He crouches in front of me and clasps my chin in his hand, forcing me to look up. “Silly girl,” he says. “It’s a miracle you hid so well and so long. But…”

 

The slap he gives me stings my cheek, white-hot pain blazes in my jaw and a few pieces of tooth break loose from my gums. “All things come to an end, even deceit.”

 

He lets go of my chin and I hang my head, struggling to breathe through the pain and blood. “To the courtyard, we go,” he says cheerfully. “On to the pyre.”

 

I squeeze my eyes shut and grit what remains of my teeth. They drag me through the puddle of blood I left on the floor, my naked skin screeching against the tiles. This is karmic debt for putting Karras on a pyre and lighting it, it has to be.

 

I blink and crane my neck to glance at Karras. Here he is, a smirk on his face, his eyes gleeful and delighted. Wearing his shiny Templar armor, sword sheathed at his side, not a hint of ash or cinders on him.

 

If I burned him on a pyre, how can he be here?

 

And Alrik… there’s something about Alrik… He shouldn’t be here, either. Squinting, I ignore my throbbing head. I tune out the sound of my legs being dragged over the floor. I focus on the hot, coppery breath drawn in and out through my nose, the air which burns when it touches my gums. It’s not the first time my teeth got smashed out of my mouth, either, is it?

 

No. It happened before. I showed my broken, bloodied teeth to Karras before I… before I…

 

Before I twisted my blade around in his skin, cracking his bones and shearing through his muscles and sinews to cut off his wrists. And then… and then… A streak of red… A pile of Sloth demons…

 

Demons. The Fade. I’m in the bloody Fade.

 

We pass through a doorway. I grind my teeth together and stretch out my legs as far as they’ll go, grunting when my thigh muscles burn. I curl my toes around either side of the doorframe and hang on as best I can. My elbows are jarred and the right one snaps when they try to force me through with violence. I’m pretty sure my wrist snaps as well. And one of my right toes, the big one no doubt. Not to mention the toenail that digs into my flesh. I wince but hang on, wriggling in their grasp.

 

“Come now, I thought we’d established resisting is of no use,” Karras says, his eyes burning red and a growl creeping into his voice. Glaring at him, I pull back my lips and sneer at him.

 

“Not today,” I snarl, before folding my hands together, letting go of the doorway and slamming into him like a cannonball. Damn it, my Smite failed miserably. No matter, I’m free. I howl in pain when he drops me and my elbow hits the floor. Yep, definitely broken. Fuck my life.

 

Pain hammers against my skull, but it’s not my physical body that’s here. I shouldn’t feel pain. With his sharp teeth twisted into a grimace, Karras lunges for me, his skin bubbling red and orange. My hands, folded into a spear shape, pass right through his burning skin and I Smite him with all the strength I can muster. Howling, Karras explodes into a blinding white light, flames expanding around me and him. They burn before my Smite wipes them out of existence.

 

Alrik growls and sheds his skin, almost like a snake. The skin falls to the ground and he floats up, clad in wispy black shadows, a pointy hat askew on his head. Would’ve been hilarious if I hadn’t been freezing. My fingers become yellow and blue in quick succession, while my shoulder muscles clench against the cold. My broken teeth click together when they chatter. My breath puffs out of me in a white mist. Frost crackles when it creeps up against the walls.

 

Hands still bound together, I sway. My toes and soles burn when they freeze the ground. Fuck no. I’m not going out like this. I’m not freezing to death. My head pounds, but I aim my hands to the floor and imagine iridescent blue flames around my fingers and the ropes keeping them bound.

 

(Ropes?)

 

They lick at the fibers, eating away at them until I brush them off my wrists, rubbing at the burn marks.

 

The Despair demon shrieks and a hailstorm pommels my head. Great, hail the size of golf balls. I cover my head with my hands and run, heedless of the fact that I’m wearing a nightgown, I’ve apparently been found out, and Orsino hates me for deceiving him. The Despair Demon floats behind me, shrieking at the top of her (his?) lungs. My ears ring and I sway from side to side.

 

I stub my toe against the threshold again and fall into the courtyard walkway.

 

“Grab the abomination!” Thrask shouts, and I push myself to my feet and run straight into Carver’s arms. He grabs my elbows, whirls me around and wrenches them on my back, forcing me to hunch over. Shrieking, I trash around to break his grip. He lets one elbow go and puts his arm around my neck, squeezing. Not able to put a hand between his arm and my throat, I gag and choke and spasm until my resistance becomes weaker and weaker. I tug at my arms, frantically trying to free myself, but Carver’s grip is unrelenting. Opening and closing my mouth, my arms and legs spasm uncontrollably. I try to swallow, but it only hurts.

 

“Hello there,” the demon, whatever he might be, growls into my ear. “Just go to sleep, and you might be lucky enough to sleep through your death.”

 

At those words, I open my eyes and wriggle around again, gritting my teeth. My lungs burn and my head is going to explode, my eyes are going to pop out of their sockets and my cheekbones are going to cut through my skin.

 

Death in the Fade? Yeah, okay, can handle that. I’ll just wake up, after all. Death in the Fade while I’m unconscious? Hell no. No way. I jerk around, scrabbling for purchase with my feet, cutting them on the seams of the stone floor.

 

The demon chuckles, its warm breath blowing into my ear. “Shhh. Go deeper. Let it all slip away. Relax.”

 

I blink and shake my head, my nostrils flaring. My eyes fall shut and I force them open again. No, no, no. My head bobs and my eyes close again. This time it takes me longer to pry them open again.

 

“Good girl,” the Desire Demon whispers against my skin, kissing me underneath my ear. Her breasts press against my back and her teeth pull at my earlobe. Tears burn in my eyes when a wave of heat passes through my body. There’s nothing erotic about this, for fuck’s sake. But I still press myself against her when she loops her other arm around my waist and holds me tightly.

 

She lets out an amused chuckle. “Close your eyes. Keep them closed, like that.” her voice falls into a whisper and I strain to catch her words, my eyes shut. I should open them, but my eyelids are heavy. Floating on clouds, I curl and uncurl my tingling fingers.

 

“A few more seconds. There we go. Just give in.”

**The Fade**

 

I yerk to awareness when fire crackles and pops, scourging the soles of my feet. My shoulders are still burning. Cold wind lashes at my naked skin, making it break out in goosebumps. My fingers tingle when I try to move them and grow numb when I stop fiddling. Rope chafes over my wrists. I tug and tug and tug, and when that doesn’t work, I press myself against the stake I’m tied to and try to catch my breath through the smoke and ash whirling around me.

 

Suffocation. That’s what kills you when you’re burned at the stake. Not the fire. It hurts (duh), but the smoke is what gets you long before your flesh starts peeling off and turning into charcoal. I cough, rubbing my hands along each other, grasping my right thumb in my left hand and wrenching.

 

“Aaa-aagh.” Between hacking coughs, and jumping up and down, frantically kicking at the flames, I manage to press my thumb against the stake and jump once, twice, until my thumb breaks in the other direction and I jerk my hand out of the ropes, shaking them off my other hand. I take one step forward, place my foot on smoldering wood, try to lunge the other way and lose my balance. Smacking into the pyre construction itself, the flames rapidly lick at my exposed skin. My hair and eyebrows? Gone. My hands burn in white-hot pain, as does everything else. I throb with the flames, scrabbling around for something to hold on to. My nails scrape over coaled wood, which flakes off underneath my frantic touch. I gulp in a breath and cough and choke when I inhale the singed air.

 

“Suck on a fireball!” Fire erupts right in the middle of the watching Templars, and they scatter, shrieking and flailing out of their burning cloaks and capes.

 

Someone curses and a burning arrow soars through the sky, thumping into the stake.

 

“Use-” Alrik yells, the roar of the fire drowning him out. “Explosives!”

 

“Nock!” someone shouts. I clutch at the burning wood and hiss out a breath.

 

“Dread Wolf take you!”

 

… Yes please, I could use me a Dread Wolf right about now.  

 

I’m a goddamned Old God dragon. I shouldn’t be burning. Fire doesn’t hurt dragons. I’m an Elven Creator God, for crying out loud. (Does that make me a gemi-God?). Sure, I’m not Sylaise or Andruil, who have fire mojo, or Elgarnan, who is practically a ball of fiery angst, but blargh, I’m still a fire-breathing winged lizard, bitch please!

 

“I’m a fucking dragon, you motherfucking mothers-”

 

That ain’t right.

 

“Motherfuckers!”

 

Whatever.

 

Black smoke engulfs me, billowing around me and obscuring my vision. An explosive arrow flies into the pyre, fuse smothered by the smoke and sputtering. With a roar, I yank it out of the wood and toss it over my shoulder without looking. My hand and arm are black and shadowy, smoke curling around the edges. My nails are elongated, thick and curved. Almost like claws. I blow out a breath through my nose and I swear I’m blowing out hot smoke.  

 

The explosion sends a wave of heat over my body, the shockwave slams me down, the air from the blast fans the fire into an inferno.

 

“Justice! You’re a Maker-damned Ice mage! Do something about that fire!” Hawke shouts, but I scramble to my feet, my hair blazing with black fire and mist. It twists itself into a set of long, heavy horns that flicker in the edges of my vision. I suck in a deep, burning lungful of air, raise my arms above my head, stretch out my claws and perform a dive the Olympics would be proud of.

 

My claws tear through the fabric of the Fade and for a few seconds, I exist in a vast expanse of darkness. A vast dome without suns, stars or moons, with no light but the flames licking at the edges of my vision. There’s no horizon to guide me, and hell if I know which way is up and which way is down, but I hop and jump into another Fade-step and tear into the blackness with my claws until a pinprick of light blinds me. Tearing and scratching, I rip into the tiny pinprick until it’s large enough to fit my head and my… horns (?) through.

 

I blow out a deep breath and let myself fall forward. I stumble and trip over my smoldering feet, skidding to a stop in a patch of grass. It tickles between my toes. The shadows, mist, and cinders are carried away on a swift wind. Hunched over, hands pressed to my abdomen, I try to catch my breath. My throat rasps and aches and I groan.

 

“Holy mother of Maferath, woman!” Hawke shouts, limping forward and steadying herself on her staff. There are bags under her eyes, as well as a cut in her lip and a nasty bruise on her right collarbone.

 

“You tore right through that dream world. First, you went up in smoke and fire and then the world did. We thought you were dead.” She rests her weight on her heels, hands folded over her chest, her staff held loosely in her right hand.

 

Raising her chin, she nods at me, her blue eyes narrowed. “Whatever that was, keep doing it, because you sure tore through some Templars on your way out,” she says, letting out an amused chuckle.

 

“Here, mortal.”

 

I turn around just in time to catch a feathered cloak with my face.

 

“Thanks, Justice,” I mumble through a mouthful of feathers, shaking it out before shrugging it on and pulling it around myself. I secure it with a little silverite pin in the shape of a cat. Awww.

 

“There is no need for thanks, mortal. You were naked,” Justice says, stark naked himself. Because Anders hasn’t learned a thing from our trip into the secret Darktown entrance.

 

With a shudder, I shake my head and run my tongue over my teeth. All of them are accounted for and in one piece, smooth as polished marble. Huzzah for Fade dental care. Maybe there’s something in the active charcoal toothpaste hype, after all.

 

Merrill giggles, as does Hawke. Varric snorts and politely looks away. Cullen gapes, blushing all the way to the roots of his hair.

 

“Maker’s breath, that’s, uhm. I did not expect to see that, today.” He blinks and shakes his head. “Or any day, for that matter,”

 

Justice blinks and frowns, looking down at himself. He groans and rubs his forehead.

 

“Anders, you know no shame, do you?” he mutters, shaking his head. His hands glow, the glow creeping from his fingers all the way to his toes. Seconds later, he’s clad in a cloak identical to the one he gave to me.

 

I glance from Justice to Cullen. Hm… which one of them do I grab and shake first? Shaking my head to myself, I grab Justice by the arm and haul him to one of the walkways. He frowns but follows me. Good sign. I hope.

 

Having reached the corner, I fold my arms over my chest and lean against the wall, narrowing my eyes at Justice. “So, what’s the whole ‘Stay away from Anders’ stuff about, exactly?” I ask.

 

Justice’s jaw sets and he squares his shoulders. “You are a distraction to our cause-”

 

“Which would be?” I snap, tilting my head to the side. In the background, a Sloth Demon floats through the courtyard toward Hawke and the others, speaking in a soothing, deep voice. Goosebumps rise on my arms and I wrap them tighter around myself. Let Hawke deal with Torpor, I’m not strong enough to defend myself, anyway.

 

“Mage equality. Mage rights. Freedom. You are all he can think about.” He chuckles, looking down at his hands, stretching and clenching them. “You, Hawke and that annoying elf.”

 

I blink. “Fenris?”

 

Justice shrugs. I shake my head. Stupid attempt at side-stepping. Back on topic.

 

I open my mouth and close it again, staring at Merrill, who lunges at a translucent flying book. She lets out a ‘fenedhis!’ when the book flashes out of her reach and cheers when it’s impaled by one of Bianca’s arrows.

 

“Thank you, Varric,” Merrill says, giving Varric a bright smile.

 

Varric shrugs. “No worries, Daisy. You want the creepy flying book, you get the creepy flying book.”

 

Who got the attribute points? Do we even have attribute points? Huh, I bet my constitution is set on -1,000.

 

“Anyway… how am I a distraction? Shouldn’t we work together on this?” I ask, glancing over Justice’s shoulder at Hawke, who’s nodding at whatever Torpor is saying. Deep breath. Keep Justice distracted and he might not even notice Hawke is making some deal with Torpor.

 

On the other hand, I need Feynriel the Dreamer, not Torporiel the Dreamstalking abomination. Ugh. Maybe I should step in and yell at Hawke.

 

Justice gives me a blank look before he leans his chin on his fist. “Really, mortal? Do you not see the way he looks at you? You do not see the desire, the lust in his eyes? The admiration? The envy?”

 

My jaw drops. Eh, what?

 

“What?” I repeat weakly.

 

Justice snorts. “His fantasies about you make even me feel emotions I am not supposed to feel. I am Justice, not Desire or Lust.”

 

I clack my teeth together and grimace. “You’re not going to change into either one of those… right?”

 

“No, mortal, I am not. Do not pursue him. Cease your visitations and the obsession will fade on its own. Do not indulge in fruitless romantic fantasies of your own. His attraction to you is purely physical in nature, purely about domination and conquering. There is nothing in him that wants you for who you are.”

 

Liar.

 

Unless he’s speaking the truth. I grit my teeth together, blow out a deep breath through my nose and close my eyes. They’re blurred with tears when I open them again.

 

“You know who’s a heartless bastard, Justice? You are,” I grit out with a trembling voice. “You’re the one who keeps attacking me, who keeps pushing me away, and now you’re telling me Anders desires me simply to own me? As arm candy? To parade around, basking in some kind of twisted victory over the Templar Order? Is that what this is about, about me being a Templar? Because you know just as well as I do that it’s something I didn’t ask for.”

 

Why am I even arguing with him about this? I don’t want Anders like that. Yeah, okay, maybe a little. Maybe more than a little. But ask me the same about Fenris, Merrill, Isabela, and Orsino and I’ll give the same answer.

 

… when did Orsino join that list…?

 

He holds up a hand when I open my mouth to continue, his head tilted to the side, his brows creasing into a frown. He turns around, gazing silently at Hawke and Torpor, and walks toward them with big, determined strides. Crap.

 

I’m running toward them, my hollow aluminum stick clutched in both hands like a polo stick. Justice draws his staff, takes on a wide stance and glares at Hawke.

 

“I will not let you treat with this creature,” he says.

 

Hawke taps her index finger against her chin, her head tilted to the side, and smiles. “Have it your way,” she says, holding out her hands, clasping them together and pulling as if she’s pulling on a rope.

 

“Fuck! Justice!” I scream. A wall of energy crashes into me and sends me flying forward. Gritting my teeth, I move my fingers. If I can let go of the stick, I’ll just barrel into him and that’s that. My fingers refuse. If anything, they cramp even tighter around the stick. Justice turns around halfway, his eyes widen when he sees me coming. I squeeze my eyes shut and avert my head.

 

A shower of warm liquid splatters all over me. It drenches my fingers, drips out of my hair and eyebrows and some of it burns on my lips. My left hand is braced on Justice’s chest, having managed to pry it free at the last second. My right hand jerks from the momentum of shoving the stick through his chest.

 

Nothing beats in his chest. I press my lips together. They’re dry enough to stick together when I open them again to take a deep breath, and I wet them with my tongue. Swallowing heavily, I grab the stick with two hands and pull. Bones creak and I fall on my ass when it shoots free.

 

“Maker’s breath, Hawke. That was _Blondie_ you killed there.” Varric stares at us with wide eyes.

 

Hawke chuckles and scrutinizes her nails. “He’ll wake up with a headache, that’s all,” she says with indifference. My nails break when I drag myself to Justice’s side, hands trembling when I lay them on his chest and press. Still nothing. My hands come away black. Not good.

 

“Such an impressive display of power, mortal. Deliver me the Dreamer, and I will make you even stronger,” Torpor says, floating in the background. I glare at him.

 

“You’re just a hunchbacked skeleton with bodybuilder arms and a periscope-eye with a purple rave light” I snap at him. “All you’ll do with Feynriel’s power is drive people crazy.”

 

He tilts his… head to the side, steepling his claws. “What would you suggest I do with the Dreamer, mortal?”

 

I shove myself to my feet and sway. My stomach churns and bubbles. When I open my mouth to say something, a burp comes out. Swallowing heavily, I hunch over and clutch my stomach.

 

“Uh… hold on to that thought,” I mutter, whirling around and falling to my knees. My vision blurs enough for my hands to look like they’re two slabs of flesh without fingers. Another burp and I’m throwing up something red, black and foul-smelling. The stench of decay makes me retch, and I shove myself away, forcing deep breaths into my lungs.

 

Immune to the Taint. Sure. I didn’t expect I’d turn my bowels inside out to cough the nasty stuff back up.

 

“Interesting…” Torpor hums to himself. Yeah, yeah, STFU.

 

“I suggest you let him go and… uh… find someone else.” Pressing my lips together into a tight grimace, I shrug.

 

“Someone like you, perhaps?” he muses, curiosity in his voice.

 

“No, Torpor,” I say, tossing my stick in the air and catching it in a firm grip. My thumb presses painfully against the shaft. Glaring at him, I bring the stick up next to my ear. It’s a bit wobbly but light enough to pull my hand back without tipping it over.

 

“Fetch.” I slam my arm forward and release the stick. It crashes to the ground, bounces a few times, and comes to a stop at Torpor’s feet.

 

I always got an F for javelin throwing in PE classes.

 

Hawke snorts. Merrill follows a translucent book with her eyes, ready to pounce. Varric grimaces, breath held and eyes darting between me and Hawke. I glare at Hawke, but shake my head and let out a deep breath. I’m going to need her and Varric if I want to get Feynriel out of here. Worse, if she kills Varric, I’ll be stuck with just her and Merrill for company. Hawke would murder knife me in the back first chance she got.

 

Gritting my teeth, I nod at her. “Fine, you win. Can we go now? Feynriel will be of no use to Hunchback over there if he’s Desire Demon food.”

 

With a sugar sweet smile and a wink, Hawke takes her staff off her back and leads the way into the Gallows-like building at our backs.

 

I glance around. "Guys, where's Cullen?" 

 

 

Hawke shrugs. "Ran off when you killed Anders."

 

As if Justice needed another reason to hate me. Gah. That’s it, I’ve had it with this shit. I hope it’s sunny in Rivain this time of the year. Are the Wardens still hiring? I’ve heard it’s always Tainty in Weisshaupt no matter the season. If all else fails, I’ll hop on a ship to Antiva. Sell wine or something. Become a florist. Head to Orlais, track down Bull and become a mercenary. Ooh, maybe I can skip that and just join the Qun. Henceforth I shall be known as Financial Administrator.

 

Yeah, no.

 

“Ugh, let’s go in.” Blinking against the migraine-inducing green blur of the Fade, I squint at the building resembling the Gallows. Weird how it’s always the Gallows even if Feynriel joined the Dalish. On the other hand, it means I know where the gallons and gallons of magebane and lyrium are stored.

 

If Cullen has one smart bone in his body, that’s where he went first. So that’s where we’re going.

 

“First stop: repository,” I announce. “Second stop: first door on the right to punch a demon.”

 

Can’t for the life of me remember what kind of demon. I know there’s the Desire Demon and the Pride Demon. Any others? No fucking clue. At least we didn’t take Aveline or Isabela with us, because they’d jump ships for the Desire Demon. Or Fenris. Yikes. I do not want to know what getting my heart ripped out of my chest feels like.

 

“Don’t forget your pointy stick.”

 

I glare at Torpor, who shrugs. With a groan, I stomp toward him, bend at the waist and snatch the thing off the floor. Straightened, I find myself inches away from him and frown. I pinch his arm and dash away. He hums in confusion.

 

“Sorry! Just wanted to know if you’re as squishy as you look!” I yell over my shoulder.

 

Varric whistles. “Maker’s breath, Meredith. You’ve got some steel balls underneath all that steel.”

 

Huh? Steel? I glance down at myself. I’m pretty sure I was wearing…

 

Steel, apparently. The Templar armor fits me like a second skin. Much more comfortable than in real life, and feather light. Stupid Fade.

 

Would I be able to keep it if I went in and out of the Fade with Moth?

 

Andraste’s flaming ass, imagine being able to create all the weapons you can imagine. Crossbows that’ll never miss their targets, swords, and daggers with perfect balances, axes that’ll never wear and tear. And why stop there? What about guns, pistols, rifles, snipers? Give a rogue a sniper and they’d be the deliverer of silent death.

 

My mouth just about salivates at the thought of holding a gun in my hand. And then it’s there. A standard nine mil, with missing pieces. Practically fudged together by my gun-inexperienced mind. There’s this little flipper thing on the left side, which I flick down with my thumb.

 

Click.

 

I don’t know if that’s really what a safety looks like, but whatever. Everything else seems to be there. Complete with infinite ammo, hopefully. Does this thing use clips or magazines? Ugh. Who gives a fuck as long as it fires?

 

“What’s that thing you’ve got there?” Varric asks, tilting his head to the side and rubbing his chin. With a shrug, I fiddle with a random button which mysteriously appeared on the underside. It does nothing. I roll my eyes and hit the top of the gun with my left hand. A spray of bullets tinkles to the ground. Crap.

 

Stooping down, I pinch one of them between my thumb and index finger. I drag my teeth over my bottom lip and squint at it. Varric does the same and hums. At least now I can…

 

An iridescent blue glow pulsates in and around the bullet and I smirk, popping it back in. Like a magician, I swoop my hands over the rest of the bullets, which glow in response. Picking them all up and popping them in takes longer than I would’ve liked, but hey, at least now I have lyrium infused bullets.

 

I whirl around and aim at Torpor first. He sighs and holds up his hands. Huh, how does he know you’re supposed to do that? Maybe it’s a universal instinct or something. I pull to the right, aiming at a stone pillar instead. The trigger is light enough that I accidentally pull it three times, a muffled pop firing the bullets. They explode in a ball of blue light, blue veins whipping at the ground and the nearest plant. The plant shrieks, withers and dies. I drop my arms, gun facing to the ground, and stare at the dead plant.

 

“Oops,” I mutter. Torpor watches me, his head tilted to the side and his hands clasped behind his back.

 

Hawke laughs. “I want one of those,” she says.

 

Uh hu, no fucking way. Crap, she might imagine herself one. That’s it, world, you’re screwed. My bad.

 

“I’d stick with magic, for now, Hawke. I’m more familiar with these kinds of things than swords and such, so…” I shrug and stuff the gun into the holster definitely wasn’t on my belt a minute ago. Screw this, I’m moving here. It’s basically an all-you-can-eat all-you-can-imagine walking buffet.

 

The Magisters Sidereal had a point. Solas might’ve had a point all along. I roll my eyes at myself and shake my head. Mass genocide, Grethilda. Remember? Demons being vomited from a massive green hole in the sky? Yeah? We clear? Good.

 

I pick up the Maker-damned pointy stick that’s still partly covered in Anders’s blood. Yuck. It dribbles off in a waterfall of red and black. Much better. I sigh and toss it to my right hand.

 

“Right. Chop chop, everyone. Let’s kill some demons.”

 

Why didn’t I kill Torpor?

 

I want to know what kind of person Hawke is. Is she the kind of person to make deals with demons and go through with them? Trustworthy when it comes to deals. Less trustworthy when it comes to saving people versus a tangible reward. Want someone dead? Go to Hawke. Want someone saved? Must not tell Hawke. Does she go back on her deal? Keep in mind for future references. Don’t panic if she crosses you. Initially, at least.

 

**The Fade**

 

Since I’ve got the Lyrium gun, I’m on point. Varric guards the rear, Hawke and Merrill are in the middle. All they’ve got to do is stab themselves with their staffs and bleed, anyway. Plus, Merrill can use her avant-garde plant mojo from a safe distance. Hawke can always just chuck her murder knife at stuff.

 

I want a murder knife.

 

A weight settles on my left hip. A sheath with a hilt sticking out. I wrap my fingers around the hilt and draw the knife.

 

“Holy mother of God,” I mutter. It’s not a knife, it’s a damn cleaver.

 

Ready… steady… **COOK!**

 

Sorry about that. Couldn’t help myself.

 

Useful for cutting through flesh and bones, zombies and demons. Heh.

 

With a click, Varric shoots an arrow straight through the translucent flying book. It lets out an unholy shriek, trembles in mid-air gives one last flutter of its pages and crashes to the floor.

 

“Shit,” Varric mutters. “Almost makes me feel bad for killing it. Damn book.”

 

Hawke chuckles and joins Merrill, crouching next to her. They flip through the pages.

 

“Nothing,” Hawke says, blinking. She shakes the book. “Absolutely nothing.”

 

Merrill frowns, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “I don’t know, Hawke. I felt something when I picked it up. Creators know what it did, though.”

 

Probably gave her some extra dexterity for when she needs to chase other flying books.

 

I glance at Varric over my shoulder, who shrugs. Merrill tucks the book into her pack and off we go again.

 

We file into the first room, and I come to a stop, almost tripping over the threshold. My chest muscles protest when I catch myself on either side of the doorframe. Instead of the Desire Demon,I expected, a mage sits next to Feynriel behind a grand piano. With a delighted smile and shining eyes, she plays a little riff and pulls her hands off the keys, gesturing for Feynriel to do the same. Brow creased into a frown, Feynriel almost manages to copy her key for key. I wince when he drags his fingers over a wrong key here and there.

 

The mage’s eyes land on me. They’re brown and green like leaves painted by autumn. Her skin reminds me of hazelnuts, with its deep bronze tinge. Auburn hair is pulled up in a messy bun, a few strands peeking out and falling over her left eyebrow and eye. She smiles at me.

 

“Someone has an ear for music,” she says, her voice deep and pleasant. It’s like a wave of hot cocoa, or bathing in the summer sun, with the taste of salt water on my tongue. Or popping a ripe, juicy tomato from the garden at work in my mouth. We grew those ourselves.

 

I clear my throat. “Not really,” I admit with a shrug. “I can hear off-key tones, but ask me to sing and I’ll make cats yowl.”

 

Varric snickers behind me. I roll my eyes. With a smile, the woman stands up, wrapping her arms over her chest. “Nonsense,” she says. “You have a lovely voice. I’m sure you can sing if you commit to it.”

 

“Are we here for singing lessons, or are we here to kill demons?” Hawke hisses at me. I huff out air through my nose. Right. Don’t let the desire demon distract me.

 

Apparently, my secret desire is either a musically-talented woman or to become a ballad singer myself. Leave it to me to find my life calling after I abandoned my life. Lovely.

 

The woman arranges her robes around her and fills a glass of water from a decanter on a table in the middle of the room. Feynriel hasn’t even noticed us, concentrated as he is on his music. I nudge Varric with a foot and gesture at Feynriel with my chin.

 

“On it,” Varric mumbles, putting Bianca away and climbing on the seat next to Feynriel.

 

“So, kiddo, a musician, ey?”

 

Varric will have him straightened out in a minute or two. Tuning them out, I turn to the piano teacher. My mouth falls open.

 

At her side, Cullen appeared. He holds her hand like it’s the most precious thing in the world, intertwining their fingers and brushing his thumb over her knuckles. Closing my eyes, I shake my head and sigh.

 

“Solona Amell, I’m guessing?”

 

With a smirk, she nods, putting her arm around Cullen. “Aw, you told your friends about me? Only good things, I hope?”

 

Cullen kisses her cheek and laughs. “Are there bad things to tell, love?”

 

The way he says love, and the way he looks at her… with such longing and sadness.

 

Crap, he knows she’s just a demon, but he’s indulging. And why wouldn’t he? 

 

“Cullen…” I say with a sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. He meets my eyes and nods but doesn’t let go of Solona.

 

“Ir abelas, Cullen,” Merrill says softly. Cullen presses his lips together and grimaces, giving a little shrug. His eyes glitter with tears.

 

“A demon?” Feynriel hisses, ducking his head and frowning at Varric. Solona smirks and releases Cullen, who takes a few steps back, his hands clenched into fists, his jaw set.

 

I draw my gun, aim for her head and shoot. A blast goes through the room, blue lightning strikes sizzle and snap, evaporating whatever they touch. Cullen bites back a sob and turns around, leaning his head against the wall, swallowing heavily. The muscles in his neck are strained. I tuck my gun away and put a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Hey,” I say. He doesn’t reply.

 

Crap. I didn’t think about what to say next. So I just stand there awkwardly with my hand on his shoulder.

 

Cullen sighs. “We’re done here. Let’s just go.”

 

“Feynriel!” Merrill yells, but Feynriel has already ducked past them, running out the door. Damn it.

 

I square my shoulders. “Next time we tackle him.”

 

Hawke tilts her head to the side, a smile on her lips.

 

“So…” I say, trailing off. Cullen falls into step next to me and doesn’t reply. My stomach clenches. Come on, just ask the guy what it’s like to suddenly have feelings again. Ask him if it’s a shock, or how he’s doing, or tell him you’re sorry. Or anything. But don’t just fidget awkwardly and stare at him like he’s a science project. Yes, I made him my guinea pig. Yes, it was wrong. No, I can’t turn back time and fix it.

 

“Don’t,” Cullen says, his jaw clenched. “Just don’t.”

 

“Okay,” I whisper and avert my eyes.

 

“There!” Hawke yells, falling into a sprint. We run after her, Varric cursing because he’s got shorter legs. We skid to a stop in a courtyard and tingles sweep through my body.

 

“What in the…” Cullen mutters, gaping at me.

 

Huh?

 

I look down at myself. Robes, bare feet, masculine hands. My ears feel weird. A breeze tickles them and I suppress a shiver and bite my lip. I squeeze my legs together.

 

OMG, I’ve got a penis.

 

OMG, it’s… ah… of decent size, so to speak.

 

In other words: Feynriel turned me into Orsino.

 

Heat creeps into my cheeks.  

 

I guess it's Freaky Friday.


	19. Wryme

Blinking, I gape at myself. Hawke laughs. Merrill mutters something about her creators. Varric bursts out into a roar and quickly hides it behind a cough when I glare at him.

 

I square my shoulders, roll my eyes, and step into the courtyard. My newly acquired penis swings cheerfully with my movements, and I bite on my fingers to keep myself from bursting into hysterical laughter.

 

Keeper Fakethari prattles on about the Dalish legacy and crap, while I wiggle my toes and drag a hand through my hair. I pinch my ear between my fingers and blow out a deep breath. Sensitive elven ears indeed.

 

Hey, if I’m Orsino, does that mean I can necromance the dead back to life? Shoot lightning from my eyes? Blow Fakethari through the nearest wall with Force Magic? Frowning, I concentrate on my fingers and will lightning into existence.

 

Nothing.

 

Aw, damn it. Too good to be true.

 

Feynriel stammers his way into awkwardness, and I snort. Where’s Solas when you need him to sniff and huff in disdain at this ridiculous scene?

 

Rolling my eyes, I take a step forward and clear my throat. Fakethari glowers at me, Feynriel’s eyes widen, and he stumbles backward.

 

“First Enchanter Orsino?” he asks. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Yeah,” I say. “I was wondering the same thing. You joined the Dalish, my friend. You shouldn’t be in the Gallows.”

 

“The… The Gallows? We’re in the Gallows?” Feynriel’s eyes dart around, wide as saucers. He frowns at Fakethari and backs away slowly. Fakethari whirls on me, her eyes filled with disdain.

 

“Look at what you did!” she shouts, gesturing at Feynriel, who holds up his hands and keeps backing up. “You broke my illusion.”

 

With three sentences, I might add. I’m awesome.

 

Keeper Fakethari explodes out of her skin in a flash of bright light. I grab for Feynriel when he storms past me. Hawke curses and lunges, but misses him by a hair’s breadth. Merrill stares at Wryme.

 

“Hmpf,” Wryme huffs. “Perhaps your friends will take what I offer.”

 

His six eyes focus on Hawke, who rolls her eyes, her arms folded over her chest. She juts out her chin and snorts. “Save your breath. Not interested.”

 

Wryme shrugs and focuses his attention on Cullen. I square my shoulders.

 

“And what about you, ser Templar?” Wryme asks politely. “I will help you cleanse the Templar Order of those who have given in to greed and malice. Together, we could build a world where no mage has to fear for their lives, like your Solona. Instead, the Templars would serve as they were intended to: to protect mages from man, and man from mages.”

 

I raise my eyebrows. Is that how Cullen sees himself? As a protector of mages? Or is it because of Solona? Cullen frowns and shakes his head, rubbing over the back of his neck. Wryme chuckles and his six eyes take in Varric.

 

“And you, dwarf? Would you not take back the credit your brother stole from you? He was always their favorite son, and you know that. I can help you become the better son.”

 

“He does always take everything from me,” Varric admits begrudgingly, stroking his chin. I glance from one to the other and burst out laughing, shaking my head.

 

“You guys are idiots,” I say. I whirl on Varric and tilt my head to the side. “Varric, Bartrand has nothing on you. You’re charming, you spin stories from nothing at our beck and call, and Bartrand shoved himself into a panic room, paranoid to the bones you’ll come for him. You already won twice over, dammit.”

 

I whirl on Cullen and punch him on the shoulder. “You’re just making life way harder than it should be. Get yourself together; I'm not picking up the pieces for you. A demon? And Pride, of all things?” I raise my eyebrows at him and stare him down.

 

Cullen flushes, grimaces and shakes his head, his shoulders slumping. He lets out a heavy sigh. “You’re right,” he mutters, eyes cast downward. “I do know better than that.”

 

Since no-one is being smart and taking out their weapons, I included, I pull out my gun and click the safety off.

 

Vines burst out of the ground and wrap around my feet and ankles. What the fuck? I shriek and try to pull myself loose, only for other vines to wrap around my midriff and arms, wrenching them behind my back. A vine pulls the gun out of my hands and crushes it into tiny pieces. Bullets clang harmlessly on the ground. My pointy stick presses into my spine and wrists.

 

“Dammit, Merrill!” I shout, turning my head. Merrill pouts, her eyes on Wryme, and glances at Hawke.

 

Hawke gapes at her. “What the fuck, Merrill?”

 

Merrill shakes her head and gives Hawke a nervous smile. “I’m sorry, Hawke. He offered me the preservation of our history. Of the People. I was First to my clan. I cannot choose you over my People.”

 

“Oh come on, Daisy. Didn’t you listen to Orsinedith over here?” Varric asks, pointing at me with Bianca.

 

Gee, thanks a lot for the help, guys. I wriggle against the vines. They tighten.

 

That’s it, I’m never gardening again in my life.

 

I glare at Wryme. “Telepathy is cheating, you arrogant, narcissistic son of a bitch.”

 

Wryme growls at me, stretching his arms behind him. Electricity sizzles in his fingers. My eyes widen. Oh, God. Lightning is going to hurt like a bitch.

 

“Cullen,” I hiss. “Do something.”

 

Instead of helping me, Cullen pulls his blade, dodges the whips of lightning Wryme snaps through the air, and curses when Merrill’s staff blocks his downward arc. The lightning whips zap the ground right next to me, sending a shock through my body. I scream. Every fiber in my body tingles, it’s like my nails are trying to jump off my fingers, and the world drops out from under my feet. It’s like an unseen force picks me up before slamming me down on the ground without pause. My heart drops before picking up in a frantic pace.

 

A vine wraps around my throat. Loosely, thank fuck. And then it wraps around my mouth, and I can’t scream for help when Wryme chuckles and lashes me. The lightning burns against my skin; blood roars through my ears, the world spins. I’m pretty sure I blacked out for a second before coming back to myself. I bit down on the vine like mad, it’s sap prickling on my tongue and filling my mouth and nose with the scent of pine. I gag.

 

Fuck this, the minute I’m out of the Fade, I’m picking up a sword, a pointy stick, a shield and I’m going to train until I die from exhaustion. I'm never going to be this helpless again. I manage to wrangle one hand out of the vines and give Wryme the middle finger before his lightning whip hits me on the cheek and a high pitched sound rings in my ears.

 

Oh Goddamnit, I can Fade-step my way out of this fuckfest. I’m so fucking stupid. I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine moving forward, lunging, running, falling. Whatever. Nothing. I press my eyes closed harder until I see stars and fireworks against my eyelids and frown. Think shadows. Think mist. Think fire and coals and think of blackness.

 

The lightning whip cuts through the air, and I jerk myself backward in reflex. The world tilts and jars, my ears pop, and my stomach does a flip-flop. My vision dissolves into fire, shadows, and mist and I cannonball my way through the fabric of the Fade. Okay, good. Now which way is up and which way is down and where the fuck am I going? Back. I need to get back. I need to keep Merrill from fucking up, Hawke and Varric from killing Merrill and Cullen from lobbing off Feynriel’s head as a precautionary measure.

 

I crash into Arianni’s house, setting a chair on fire and singing the dining table. As for myself, I end up with my calves straining against the table’s edge, aluminum stick hanging loosely in my right hand, my other hand tearing deep gauges into the table’s surface. Oops. The world is upside down. Marethari and Arianni stare at me with wide eyes.

 

“Eh, hi,” I mutter, giving a wave. With a burp, I throw up a little in my mouth. It’s as disgusting as it sounds. My ribs strain under the stretch my position forces me into, and I’m sure as hell never having sex on a table, that’s for sure. With effort, I huff and puff and take deep breaths while I force myself into a sitting position. And then roll on my side to puke some more. Thank the Maker for light lunches.

 

I swear I’m asking Anders for anti-vomit potions. He’ll have to make them if they don’t exist yet.

 

“Creators!” Marethari says, abandoning her cross-legged position on the floor in favor of helping me up. “Here, drink this, child.” She shoves a wooden cup into my hands, and I guzzle it down without a second thought. It’s mint tea. Much better than the stale taste in my mouth.

 

“I think I died?” I mutter, putting my hand to the side of my head. I have to squint against the candle flames that flicker everywhere around the room. Arianni gasps, clutching her hands to her chest. Marethari clicks her tongue.

 

“Possible,” she mutters. “You must have had a terrifying experience to jump up like that.”

 

Uh, yeah. Sure. I drop the pointy stick and thank my lucky stars when it rolls underneath the table silently. At least I got to keep the skin-tight armor. Light as a feather, and hopefully durable. Shame about the gun, but a girl can’t have everything she wishes.

 

“Uh, sorry about that. Give me a bucket and some water, and I’ll clean up my mess,” I say, grimacing. Arianni shakes her head; her lips pressed tightly together.

 

“By Mythal, no, no. Sit,” she says, pointing to the couch. I crawl off the table and trudge to it at a snail’s pace. Every single muscle in my body aches in protest. I plop down, and cover my eyes with my arm and drop straight into a dreamless sleep.

 

**Jetlag**

 

Loud, angry shouting wakes me up. I shoot up and almost give myself whiplash when I crane my neck to see what’s going on. Hawke scrambles to her feet, giving Marethari a death glare. Her hands tremble, clenched into fists at her sides. Her face is ashen, and her eyes are white. Her hair is sticking up in all directions, pulled out of its braid.

 

“She killed me!” Hawke shouts, wringing her hands together. “She fucking killed me! Stabbed me with her staff! Varric and Cullen-”

 

Varric launches himself from the ground, flailing around and smacking into the nearest wall.

 

Hawke groans. “Just Cullen now. You’re damned sure he’s not strong enough to fight Merrill, that Pride Demon and Torpor. Even if he kills Merrill and Wryme, all Torpor will have to do is give him a little shove and he’ll be dead, too.”

 

Oh no. No, fuck no.

 

“Send us back,” I say, climbing to my feet. I’m still a bit shaky, and the taste in my mouth is disgusting, but I shake my head and square my shoulders.

 

Marethari shakes her head and sighs. “We must kill Feynriel here, then.”

 

“No!” Arianni cries.

 

“No fucking way,” I say, shoving past Marethari and Hawke and taking my place in front of Feynriel, who lays unmoving on the cot.

 

“It’s the only way to prevent a disaster,” Marethari says softly, looking apologetically at Arianni. Arianni blinks away tears.

 

“Please,” she whispers, folding her hands together and biting her bottom lip. Her fingers shake. “Please don’t kill my baby.”

 

Hawke, meanwhile, has slipped past Marethari to the spell book on the table. Fingers crossed I didn’t vomit all over that. Hawke wrinkles her nose.

 

Yikes. Sorry.

 

She mutters words under her breath, Elven words. I catch a few. It’s that Uthenera song. Great. Put us all under for good, Hawke, great plan.

 

Marethari sniffs. “You are not of Arlathan blood, child. The spell will not accept you.”

 

Mythal to the rescue.

 

“In uthenera na revas,” I mumble. “In uthenera na revas, in uthenera na revas, in uthenera na revas, in uthenera na revas, in uthenera na revas, in uthenera na revas.”

 

By the end, it’s gibberish. Keeper Marethari frowns at me, worry lines around her eyes. Mist fills the room. The candle flames elongate and dance and sway on an unseen wind. Hawke stumbles, gropes for a chair to steady herself on, misses and drops to the ground. Her eyes are wide, and she stares at me with parted lips.

 

“In uthenera na revas. In uthenera na revas. In uthenera na revas.”

 

Gravity cradles me. Distant drums fill my ears, with a background choir of chirping crickets, hooting owls, leaves crunching underfoot, branches groaning in the wind. The hairs on my arms stand on edge. My fingers tingle and become numb.

 

“In uthenera na... revas.”

 

I go down like a sack of potatoes.

 

**The Fade**

 

Like a jouster, I hold my pointy stick in both hands and drive it right through Merrill’s chest when I pop into existence right behind her. A weak breath shudders out of her, followed by a faint groan, a cough, and a terrifying amount of blood spurting out of her mouth. I stabbed her in her chest; maybe through her left lung, I don’t know. Hawke stares at me with wide eyes from Merrill’s other side.

 

Merrill fumbles for the stick, trying to push it back out. Her fingers slip off and leave a bloody trail. She looks at me with regret in her eyes, then at Hawke, who stares with wide eyes, hand clasped over her mouth. A spark of determination ignites in Merrill's hardening eyes. She presses her lips together, presses one hand against her chest around the stick, and raises her other arm to the Pride Demon watching us. It roars before exploding in a wave of blood and gore. Merrill's laugh turns into a cough and then into a wet, scraping gurgle. A stream of blood catches me in the face, and I flinch.

 

"I... Ir abelas," Merrill rasps, her eyelids fluttering. The hand clutched to her chest trembles and slides downward. Having no fucking clue what to do now, I squeeze my eyes shut and twist the thing around and around until she stops shuddering and gurgling. The stick slips out of my hands, and I drop on my hands and knees and crawl away heaving and retching.

 

“Merrill?” Hawke asks with a trembling voice. I deposit a wave of tea on the floor. I can imagine her crouching next to Merrill, shaking her shoulder. Trying to prompt a reaction.

 

“She’s dead, Hawke,” Cullen rasps.

 

I force my head up. One arm hangs uselessly at his side; his sword is broken. One leg is a bloodied mess of sinew and muscle. With a groan, he collapses against the wall, sliding down. Sweat pours down his face. With his eyes closed, he holds up his broken blade towards Hawke.

 

“I can’t go on like this,” he says, coughing. He hunches over and groans. His eyelids flutter a few times before he manages to crack them open far enough to look at Hawke.

 

“I know you don’t like me, so…” He chuckles, giving a half-hearted wave with his blade. Oh, God. Hawke sighs and strides towards him, crouching down and brushing his hair out of his face. She rips her sleeve off and uses the makeshift cloth to dab the sweat off his face.

 

“I don’t hate you, Cullen,” she mutters. “You were just an easy target. Knight-Captain and all, you know.”

 

Cullen laughs, hunching over and coughing. Blood dribbles down his chin and Hawke wipes it away with a sigh.

 

“Can't believe I have to do this again...” she whispers, shaking her head.

 

“I’m sorry,” Cullen whispers. Hawke snorts and stabs him in the chest. Her hands come back bloodied. With a huff, she stabs him again. And again. And yet. His head lolls to the side, his body flopping lifelessly with every stab. Hawke sobs. Cullen's dead eyes stare glassily into the distance, a ghost of a smile still on his face.

 

Oh God oh God oh God she’s still stabbing him damn it Hawke he’s dead.

 

I storm toward her, grab her by the shoulders and wrench the blade out of her hands, twisting her wrist until she's forced to let go. Hawke punches my jaw, and I almost bite off my tongue, my mouth filling with blood.

 

"Hawke," I say, holding both hands up, the broken blade held loosely in my left hand. "It's over. The Pride Demon is dead. All we have to do now is tell Feynriel to wake up."

 

Hawke sighs and scratches through her hair, leaving red and black smears in her hairline. "That still leaves Torpor to fight," she says.

 

I shake my head and grin. "Not if Feynriel wakes up. We're in his dream. If he wakes up, we should, too."

 

She blinks, shakes her head and laughs, her eyes rolling upwards. "Good, I don't want to stay here for a second longer."

 

We head to the front of the Gallows, where Feynriel stands in the middle of the courtyard. He wrings his hands together, turns around in a circle and bites his lip. His eyes fill with tears.

 

Goddamnit Cullen, you ruined this, didn't you? Ugh. If you want to do something right, you have to do it yourself.

 

I sprint to Feynriel's side and grab him by the shoulders. He starts and screams. Right, don't grasp the scared guy.

 

"Feynriel, listen to me," I say, looking into his eyes and bending my head toward him. "This is just a bad dream. Arianni is with you,"

 

Feynriel blinks. "She is?" he asks, his eyes wide. I nod and grip his shoulders a little tighter.

 

"Running out of time, Meredith!" Hawke yells. I glance over my shoulder. Hawke tears her staff off her pack and draws a paralysis rune with her right foot. She slams the butt of her staff in the middle, moving it to the ground beneath Torpor's feet. The rune shimmers faintly in the air around him but shatters when he floats right through it as if it's just an annoying little thing.

 

"Blast and damnation," Hawke growls, sending a fireball his way. He deflects it easily. Damn it. I grip Cullen's broken blade at the hilt and grimace. I slash what I think is a shallow cut into the palm of my hand. It's not. I circumvented the hole in my palm, making a crescent-shaped cut. Blood runs down. Feynriel stares at it with wide eyes. I hiss against the pain and roll my eyes. Should've paid more attention in biology class.

 

"Hawke!" I shout, holding up my palm. "Need a hand?"

 

Hawke gives a devilish smirk, makes a 'come hither' gesture and gathers my blood around her in a thick red mist. A crescent wall of ice shoots out of the ground in front of Torpor, but the wave of blood shatters right on through and sets him on fire. When Hawke releases the magic, there's nothing left of Torpor but a scorch mark on the ground.

 

I open my mouth to ask her how the hell I'm able to bleed if we're not physically in the Fade, and how she can use my blood as mana to fuel her spells, but the world shudders and goes black. The lumpy couch replaces the biting cold of the courtyard beneath my back. I rotate my aching neck and groan, scowling at the bright light behind my eyelids.

 

"Good, they are waking up. Your son stirs. He is well, da'len," Marethari whispers. Arianni says something in return, half in Dalish and half in Common, but my brain scrambles the words into something unintelligible, and I'm not going to bother to try and make sense of it.

 

Hawke groans from the bedroll they placed her on, rubbing a hand over her forehead and covering her eyes with an arm. She shoots up, eyes frantic.

 

"Merrill," she says, her eyes darting through the room. Glaring at Marethari, she asks: "Where's Merrill? I have to talk to her."

 

Marethari shakes her head, a frown creasing her brow. "She woke up shortly before you did, and went home. To the Alienage. It would be wise to talk to her, Hawke. The path she walks on..."

 

Hawke bristles and rolls her eyes, shoving Marethari away. "Is the same path I walk, and I'm fine. I can handle it and so can she. Oh, I'll talk to her," she says, pointing the finger at Marethari.

 

"But not to dissuade her. I'm going to tell her she shouldn't give a rats ass about your hypocritical views, or your manipulation of her. Better yet, if I find out you've been spreading lies about her again, you'll be damned sure I'll visit the Clan and set it right myself."

 

Marethari regards Hawke with a weary expression and sad eyes. Hawke snorts and shakes her head, nodding at Arianni before whirling around and shouldering the door open.

 

"Oof," Varric mutters on the other side, and Hawke throws her hands up. "Sorry, Varric."

 

Varric pauses, gives Bianca a pat and smiles. "No worries, Hawke. Bianca and I are fine. Well, relatively fine, considering..." he trails off, and his eyes darken.

 

Hawke sighs and puts her hands on her hips. "What now?" she asks exasperatedly.

 

Varric shrugs. "Bartrand's back in town. Has a mansion in Hightown now. Thought you might want to visit him to pay him back for that stunt he pulled on us in the Deep Roads."

 

Hawke shoves past him and waves it away. "Sorry, no time. Have to talk to Merrill before she does something stupid. See you in the Hanged Man!"

 

Bewildered, Varric enters the cabin in a backward shuffle, still looking over his shoulder at Hawke, who's walking away with significant strides.

 

"She could've at least offered to buy us lunch for all the trouble we went through," Cullen huffs. Right, Cullen's still here, too. I close my eyes for a few seconds. Instead of darkness, it's his lifeless body, flopping in tandem with Hawke's stabs I see against the inside of my eyelids. I shudder and hug myself, gritting my teeth.

 

"You make her kill you and expect her to buy you lunch?" I ask in a biting tone. Cullen frowns and shakes his head. "She kills people all the time..." he mutters weakly.

 

I snort. "Yeah, but that's strangers. Today she had to kill two of her friends. Plus you."

 

He blinks, closes his eyes and rubs the back of his neck. "Maker. I don't think I've got all the emotions straightened out yet."

 

Gee, thanks for the reminder, Mr. Macaroni Hairdo. That's something I needed after all of this.

 

"Ah, well," Varric says, holding out his hands with a lopsided smile. "Bartrand isn't going anywhere anytime soon. How about a nice hot meal at the Hanged Man?"

 

I smirk. "I hear Corff serves a mean fish and egg pie. I’m buyin’.”

 

Cullen opens his mouth. I glare at him."Shut up and let me buy you lunch, Rutherford."

 

"If I might have a moment to talk in private, Knight-Commander..." Marethari begins, but I shake my head, mouth 'Nope' at her and shut the door in her face.

 

Ugh. I need a family tree with an Arlathan elf shoved in, stat. Abelas is probably a safe bet, doubt the guy has any family left.

  



	20. Walker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the NSFW-skippers: when you reach the sentence "I feel safe." ctrl + f "He’s too heavy." I'll leave an asterisk at the first sentence.

**Merethilda doesn't have the translation for the Elvhen phrases, so neither do you guys! :p But if you really want to know what they're saying, it's easy to find in[Project Elvhen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7826705#workskin).**

* * *

 

**[First Harrowing](https://i.imgur.com/V8ErbA6.png) **

**[Isabela's LI](https://i.imgur.com/ATCotR9.png) **

**[Hawke's opinion of the Qun](https://i.imgur.com/5fgvJsS.png) **

**[Hawke's hobby](https://i.imgur.com/ScqQJTR.png) **

**[Hypothetical Inquisition LI](https://i.imgur.com/W0qPxF0.png) **

**[Sebastian's LI](https://i.imgur.com/BNx16y8.png) **

**[Prime Suspect Tightrope](https://i.imgur.com/6g7b7Af.png) **

* * *

 

We pile into the Hanged Man, each one of us with dark bags under our eyes, our hair askew (especially mine, damn coupe de disaster) and shoulders slumped miserably. You know, I thought we'd been in a cabin out in the woods, but turns out we'd been in Arianni's Alienage home instead. Which means Hawke's run to catch up with Merrill might have taken up all of one whole minute.

 

I should go to the Clinic and apologize to Anders and Justice for dragging them into all this, but food. A hot meal, a warm tavern, a chair to sit in and a table to doze on. Screw moralism, I'm going to stuff my face with fish and egg pie first.

 

"What have you guys been up to?" Isabela asks, perched on her bar stool as always. She frowns at us, wrinkling her nose. The piercing under her bottom lip moves around, no doubt because she's playing with it with her tongue.

 

With slumped shoulders and hung head, I glance up at her with bleary eyes and blink. “Killed demons,” I mutter. Right, Feynriel’s here. He’s irritatingly energetic because he’s been sleeping for three days straight. Ugh. I wave in his general direction and say:

 

“Isabela, Feynriel. Feynriel, Isabela. Tavern. Food. Chair. Sit.”

 

Stannard chuckles from the back of the tavern, leaning against the wall on the right of the chairs. “Eloquent as always,” she says. I stare at her and blink, biting back a yawn. My jaws almost cramp up. Yeah, I’m crawling home and spending the rest of the year in bed. Suck it up, Thedas, I’m currently not available. Leave your message after the fuck you. Fuck you.

 

Bela rolls her eyes, gestures to Corff and says: “Hey, you. Get them food. Put it on my tab.”

 

“I’m buying,” I protest, but she scoffs and glares at Corff. Corff glares back at her with narrowed eyes. Please, get a room. Hm, a room sounds like a good idea. Varric has a double bed, right? Maybe I can dredge up the puppy dog eyes and convince him to let me take a nap in it.

 

Or maybe it’s made for dwarves, and it’ll collapse the second my back touches the mattress.

 

Varric drags himself to his table and gestures for the others to sit. Oh sure, leave me to juggle all the food to the table, I don’t need help, thanks.

 

Ugh. I rotate my neck and wince when it pops loudly. Bela smirks, tapping her cards. “Need a massage, sweet thing? Zevran is good.” She winks.

 

Not a bad idea. Save for the flirting and touching part. Maybe Zev does aura massages. Or perhaps I should suck it up, beg for Anders’s forgiveness and collapse on a cot in the Clinic.

 

After downing god-knows-what from her shot glass, Bela tilts her head to the side and smiles at me. “Remember how we played for favors a while back? Wicked Grace?” she asks.

 

I close my eyes to blink. “Faintly. Why?”

 

“Do you feel like helping me with a little project of mine?” she says

 

“No, Isabela. I’m not helping you organize a Circle-wide game of strip Wicked Grace,” I reply, rolling my eyes.

 

She laughs, shaking her head. She’s still smiling when she puts her hands on her hips and juts her chin out at me. “Wrong project, though I might have to amp up a bit on that one. No, I meant the relic.” Her eyes sparkle with excitement.

 

The what now?

 

“Eh. The Relic. Yeah. Got it.”

 

Looking at me through half-lidded eyes with her lips pulled into a straight line, she asks: “You don’t remember, do you?”

 

Guilty, I shrug, managing a weak smile. “Squat. Sorry.”

 

Bela shrugs and knocks back another shot, shoving the next one Corff sets down in front of her in my direction. I inhale and wrinkle my nose before downing it in one gulp. It burns down my throat, and I choke, pressing my fist to my collarbone.

 

“My God Bela, what is this stuff? Wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

 

Bela smirks. “It’s how Mahariel and I got to know each other. Didn’t know cards, so she challenged me to a drinking game instead. I’m telling you, I didn’t know a scrawny elf could drink so much.”

 

Fingers crossed they didn’t drunkenly stumble their way through dueling lessons right after drinking each other under the table.

 

“How did the dueling lessons go?” I ask, automatically picking up the next glass she shoves my way. Sipping doesn’t work out; it makes the taste even more awful. Reminds me of when I started drinking beer at a friend’s party. Dad had always said the first drink tasted horrible, but everything after started tasting better and better. Long story short: bottle number 1 was awful. Bottle number 2 was bitter foam. Bottle number 3 was a last-ditch effort. It tasted as if it came out of one, anyway. Oh well, Mom was surprised when she came to pick me up. I was nice to her for once, even though we’d fought when she dropped me off. Don’t remember about what. Probably petty stuff.

 

“Bela, can you keep ‘em coming?” I ask, staring down at my empty glass.

 

Smirking, she slaps me on my back. “Yeah, girl! Go for it!”

 

How are my parents holding up? Grandma on Mom’s side never talked about her grief or Pops when he’d passed away. Mom stayed up late watching TV, drowning out her thoughts with TLC shows. Dad doesn’t know how to deal with grief; he trudges on through life until life deals him a new one and he falls into a depression. I have a sneaking suspicion my aunt and uncle might catch the brunt of it, being far away to have only seen me once or twice a year, but still feeling an emotional connection with me. I hope Mom and my aunt get together for a while and talk about me.

 

What will they tell my sister when she’s older? The truth, I guess. What would it look like? A break-in? A drug deal gone wrong?

 

Food arrives, and Isabela helps me lug it to Varric’s table. Funny thing about me: sea climates keep me sober as long as I stick to one kind of drink and stop at the fifth. Meredith’s body might have worked the same, given she’s fit and all. Except after Karras, I’ve avoided training as much as possible or made half-hearted attempts. By the time the fifth drink hits, I’m looking at the world through glass, and my hands belong to someone else. Ugh, I hate derealization and depersonalization. Used to get them all the time when I was on the wrong kind of meds. Taking driving lessons while feeling like you’re playing GTA? Not funny at all.

 

We dig in, and I roll my eyes at Varric, who keeps sneaking glances at me, his lips pressed together.

 

“You okay?” he asks, leaning toward me. I shrug and dump the next glass ‘o alcohol in a potted plant when Bela isn’t looking.

 

“Nope. I don’t get a buzz. Straight to sad drunk or crawling drunk.” The only buzz I get is the one in my ears, and that’s tinnitus.

 

Varric sighs. “I meant about what happened in the Fade.”

 

I shrug again, closing one eye and peering through the glass with the other. Huh, makes the world look smaller and sharper.

 

“What happens in the Fade stays in the Fade,” I say, before stuffing a forkful of fish and egg pie in my mouth. Prisoner!Samson was right, this stuff is good. The eggs are sunny-side up, which is questionable with Thedosian hygiene, but I like my eggs sunny-side up. A fish grate gets caught between two molars, and I fish it out with a frown on my face.

 

“Corff wants me dead,” I say dryly, showing Varric the grate. He grimaces and shoves his bowl to the middle of the table.

 

“You’re new here,” Varric goes on after clearing his throat. “And you’re not the cold-blooded killer you’re pretending to be. And Anders…” he sighs, rubbing his forehead.

 

“It all went to shit today,” he says with a half-hearted shrug.

 

I laugh, a little too loud and a little too hysterical. “Varric, if you think this qualifies as ‘gone to shit’ you might want to brace yourself. Believe me, hun, shit is gonna be exploding and turn radioactive and tear a hole in the sky before we hit Dragon 42.”

 

Varric frowns. “I’ve got no idea what ‘radioactive’ means, but the rest doesn’t sound right.”

 

Shaking my head, I stab a piece of fish and use my fork as a lever to pull another grate out of its… fish? Meat? Flesh? Whatever, the grate’s out, and the fish is safe to eat. Relatively. Helloooo salmonella and legionella. I could use a day off. Just not hunched over the toilet while my bowels explode, please.

 

I finish my bowl of steaming Gordon-Ramsay's-Worst-Nightmare and push back my chair. “I'm off to see Anders, guys. Wish me luck.”

 

Isabela bends backward over her barstool and waves at me, her bandana slipping off her hair. “Good luck. You wanna be cremated or buried?”

 

Rolling my eyes, I flip her off and wave at the rest. Varric gives me a thumbs up.

 

When I exit the Hanged Man, Stannard leans against the wall next to the door and pushes herself off the wall, matching her stride to mine. I grumble something under my breath and stare straight ahead.

 

“Remember the last time you went to Anders drunk?” she asks snidely.

 

Karras has one hand on my shoulder, the other beneath my chin, forcing me to look up. “Good girl,” he croons, releasing my shoulder and moving his hand up and down his hard-on. Tears fill my eyes, and I press my lips together, my nostrils flaring when I huff out a quick breath. He rubs it against my right cheek, and I cringe and its warmth, the fleshy feel. My stomach churns, and I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe-

 

I put my arms around myself and drive my nails into my biceps. “I do, but thanks for reminding me, anyway.” I grind out through grit teeth.

 

She chuckles. “Pity you still don’t know how to defend yourself. I suppose your friends don’t care about you, letting you walk through Lowtown and Darktown by yourself without weapons.”

 

“I’m wearing armor,” I point out with a shrug. “And it’s not that far.”

 

Stannard laughs, narrowing her eyes. “True. But what about slavers? I bet Tevinter slavers would count themselves rich if they caught the infamous Meredith Stannard and sold her as a slave to some pompous Magister.”

 

I roll my eyes and round on her, hands on my hips. “That dragon you saw, when Andraste took you underground? A Tevinter Old God. So good luck with that, bitch.” I snap.

 

Her mouth hangs open, her eyes big and round in the gaslight hanging on the tavern’s wall. Shaking my head, I let out an exasperated sigh, raising my bent arms as if to shove her away, before raking my fingers through my hair instead. With my nails scratching into my scalp, I turn around and walk away, eyes blurred with tears. She doesn’t follow me.

**Day 30 (13th of Cloudreach) 11:43 PM**

 

The lanterns on the Clinic’s doors are unlit, so I shoulder open the door and close it behind me, tiptoeing through the dark. Sand crunches beneath my boots and I wince, holding still. Apart from a sniffing, squeaking mouse, nothing moves. I tiptoe further through the Clinic, take a peek in the empty kitchen and turn around, slamming into a warm wall of soft fur.

 

“Mphf?” I ask, my voice muffled and my tongue coated in fluff. Blegh. I stumble backward, almost tripping over the kitchen’s threshold, and flail to regain my balance. One round ear flicks at the sound, his big tongue curls up when the bear in front of me yawns, showing a row of impressive large teeth. The one eye facing me blinks and blearily takes me in, a grumble working its way up from its throat.

 

I stare at the bear. “Leon?” I ask with wide eyes, my voice a mere squeak. The bear shuffles backward, facing me straight on and sniffs. Its wet black nose blows a warm puff of air in my face before he jawns again. Dropping my arms to my sides, I angle my head.

 

“Uh, good night to you, too. Is Anders home?” Leon rolls his eyes and points one clawed paw to the bedroom in the back. Great, he’s either moping, drowning his sorrows in stolen Agreggio, or sleeping. 

“Thanks, buddy,” I saw, standing on my tiptoes so I can pat Leon on his broad, fluffy shoulder. “Aren’t you a lovely big teddybear, hm?” I purr. Leon sniffs in indignation, trudges toward a corner and plops down on his belly, covering his eyes with a paw. Yeah, you stay here and mope so I can talk to Anders.

 

Anders sleeps like the dead, so I open the door and slam my shoulder against it when it catches on the floor. It grinds over sand and Maker-knows-what before it passes the rough patch and slams against the wall, dragging me with it like a ragdoll. Leon rumbles from the front room, and I roll my eyes. I turn around and almost smack on my ass when I put my foot on an empty bottle of some liquor. Semi-prepared as I am, I flail and nearly break my back instead.

 

“Holy mother of Mary,” I mutter, taking in the many empty bottles on the floor, shoved into a corner, or littering the bed. Anders is a splayed out bump beneath the covers, his mouth wide open and his eyes squeezed shut, his trademark frown creasing his brows. His blond hair is ruffled and frayed, and I sit on the bed and comb through it with my fingers, pulling a little when I hit a knot. He doesn’t even stir.

 

I don’t even know why I’m doing this, but it beats cleaning up after his ass. Plus, I’m the one who killed him, so it’s my job to fix him. I might also miss fussing over my long hair. Short hair is just short hair, and Thedas doesn’t do wax or hairspray so there’s not much I can do with it, other than scrubbing through it with my hands and pray I don’t end up looking like a puffball.

 

There’s a knot behind his ear, and I tug until it’s loose, accidentally scratching behind his ear. He hums sleepily, one hand patting behind him until it lands on my knee and squeezes. I lay my hand on it, and he turns his up, sliding his fingers in between mine. I blink and yawn. Shoot.

 

“There’s room enough for two, you know,” he mutters sleepily, his voice scraping roughly. I breathe out deeply and untangle another knot with my middle and index finger.

 

“Yeah, I don’t know, Anders. I killed you today. I mean, Hawke did. Doesn’t mean I wasn’t holding on to the weapon.”

 

He scoffs and lets go of my hand (I quickly tuck it behind my back) to sit up and look at me through half-lidded eyes. His lips are cracked and dry, there’s an imprint of a wrinkle on his cheek, and he smiles.

 

“He deserved it,” he mutters, blinking. “Had no right to put that… y’know, on you.”

 

I roll my eyes and sigh. “No, he didn’t. And seriously? Fenris?”

 

He sucks his cheeks in as if he’s bitten into a lemon, narrowing his eyes. He blows out the air slowly, fiddling with his hair.

 

“Uh. Yeah, that’s uhm. I guess he’s just so aggravating my fingers won’t stop itching to, ah…”

 

I raise my eyebrows. “Bend him over your desk and fuck him senseless?” I suggest dryly. With a tight-lipped smile, he groans.  

 

I tilt my head to the side. “Then don’t invite me into your bed, invite him.”

 

He looks at me with half-lidded eyes, unamused. “He’d rip out my heart, first.”

 

Smirking, I snort. “Didn’t know he was into necro-”

 

Anders gives me a wide-eyed ‘you crazy’ side-glance, and I cut myself off with a cough.

 

Hm. Is that why Nevarra invented necromancy? You’ve got some beans to spill about that uncle of yours, Cass. My lips twitch into a smirk, my eyes narrowing in the futile attempt to hide my mirth. Anders blinks languidly and flips back the covers.

 

“See? Plenty of space to spare,” he says, muffled because the blanket hit him in the face. I huff and stiffen when I inhale. Elfroot, healing potion, deep mushroom. The smell wafts up from the sheets. Hmm, smells like my cloak-pillow. I’m not ashamed to admit I wake up from time to time curled around the feathery thing. Admit it in my head, not out loud. I have my limits.

 

Were my limbs this heavy when I left the Hanged Man? I blink and have to pry my eyes open again. With a shrug and a yawn, I fiddle with the straps of my armor until it clangs on the ground. The chainmail rattles when I pull it down my legs. Thank the Maker for modest underwear. I stretch out on the lumpy mattress - ugh, I hate lumpy mattresses - and hug the pillow, rubbing my cheek on it.

 

Anders throws the covers over me, and I stiffen when his leg touches mine. “Anders?” I ask with narrowed eyes.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Why is your default state ‘naked’?”

 

His eyes pop open, and he stares at me, frozen himself. “Flames. I didn’t think-”

 

I roll my eyes at him. “No biggie. We’re good.”

 

He rolls around, stuffing his pillow between us. Yeah, that’s going to help. I turn on my back and stare at the ceiling. I’m still staring when his breathing evens out into a relaxed rhythm, tapping the holes in my palms. Ugh. Falling asleep is not my strong suit.

 

Duh, I know a grade A sleeping spell. Rolling my eyes, I mutter “In uthenera na revas,” under my breath. Lights out.

 

**The Fade**

One silver lining: I have complete control of myself in the Fade. Stretched out in a meadow, wearing jeggings and a crop top, I rub my fingers over prickly young grass. Flowers bloom next to my head and attract bees and butterflies. A wasp lands on my arm and my eyes follow it when it walks up and down, the yellow stripes almost blinding in the bright sun. A Monarch butterfly chooses my forehead as a landing spot, and I go cross-eyed staring at the folding and unfolding wings.

 

“Hmm, I can get used to this,” Anders mutters next to me, rolling on his side to face me. His eyes are amber instead of Fade-blue, and I stare at him with wide eyes and parted lips.

 

“Uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to drag you into my dream?” I hedge. A frown creases his brow, and he sits up, looking around. We’re in a sunlit meadow, surrounded with flowers and plants and is that a deer? I squint, but the deer lopes away before I can focus on it. A songbird twitters a happy song and I scrutinize the treeline. There it is, on the branch next to the beehive buzzing with activity.

 

Flowers bloom to life in an explosion of dazzling color when I focus on the branch. Anders hmm’s under his breath, plucks a flower and idly tucks it behind my right ear. It’s vibrantly purple with little pods and attracts butterflies like honey attracts bees. They perch on my shoulders when I sit up and tickle my skin when they unroll their proboscises in search of

 

(my skin glitters with little dewdrops of sweet-smelling liquid)

 

Nectar. As if on cue, blue, pink, white and spotted brown butterflies take to the sky and land on my skin for the buffet. I giggle when one lands on the palm of my hand and sticks its proboscis through a hole.

 

Anders laughs and tilts his head up to the sun, closing his eyes. “I’ve never seen you this happy. Or a place like this in the Fade, for that matter.”

 

I smile and watch a butterfly walk to the end of my index finger, pressing my other index finger against the tip to make a bridge. It’s a pretty blue-green thing, its wings translucent and glittering in the sun.

 

“I thought you said you couldn’t do this?” he asks, opening his eyes. I shrug and cradle the butterfly in my hands.

 

“Used the spell Marethari used on Feynriel. Part of it, anyway.” I frown. “I don’t think we’re in anyone’s consciousness. Maker knows it wouldn’t look like this.”

 

Anders wriggles his toes and sighs. “A brook would be perfect, you know.”

 

“One brook is coming up,” I say dryly, tilting my head to the side.

 

I used to go swimming with a friend in a dead arm of the Maas, the river that split The Netherlands and Germany. We had to trudge through a long stretch of grass unless we wanted to take a shortcut through cow territory. Who knew cows were curious enough to take a peek? If you were fortunate and they didn’t have calves, you could end up giving a massage to a random mooing beast who dared to come close enough.

 

Anyway, after the long trip or the short trip through Moo-Moo-ville, we’d reach a clearing with a crescent-shaped pebble beach and a bright, trickling brook with cold water. Without tripping over a passionately sexing couple on the way, if we were lucky. It depends on whether you consider scaring them out of their minds as lucky or unlucky, I guess. Heh.

 

Bear the cold long enough to sit still without shivering out of your skin, and tiny fish would swim up and nibble on your toes, tickling gently. Oh, yeah, a day at the waterside always got complimented with the good ole’ sand in socks and shoes, no matter how careful you were.  

 

A babbling brook appears behind us, and I open my eyes. A brown-furred summer fox dashes past us and drops his front paws into the water. He sticks his head under the surface and comes back up, a flopping fish clamped between its jaws. Yikes. Even Fade spirits must eat something, I guess. The fox watches me with six beady black eyes and dashes off, its head and tail held high in pride. Note to self: try to bribe pride demons with fish next time you see one.

 

“You’re good at this,” Anders says, raising his eyebrows at me. My imagination dressed him in jeans and a loose tunic, his hair held together by a leather string. A healthy blush warms his cheeks, and he looks much more vigorous than in reality. I avert my eyes, suck in a breath and blink against the stubborn tears prickling in my eyes. I’m not going to cry here. I won’t.

 

“Yes, it bears to mind the question of how a Shem became well-versed in the mysteries of the Fade, doesn’t it?” a rhythmical, drawled voice asks from within the trees. Crap.

 

With his hands held comfortably at his sides, he strides forward on bare and silent feet. The sun beats down on an undecorated brown cloak, a sheer tunic spooled from wool and rough breeches. I start when I meet his bright, violet eyes. The Fade shudders around me, and he soothes it with an elegant gesture of his eyes.

 

“Who are you?” Anders asks, stepping in front of me. Blue energy swirls around his hands and cracks open up on his skin and clothes, and I roll my eyes and peer over his shoulder. The elven mage tilts his head to the side and smiles, one side of his lips tugged upwards.

 

“My name is Felassan,” he says. “And I wish to speak with her in private.” He gestures at me with his chin.

 

Crap.

 

I touch Anders’s shoulder and squeeze. “Wake up. Now.”

 

The sun becomes a blinding vortex of scalding heat and light. I open my eyes and take in my situation. In sleep, I wound my arms around him and shoved my nails into his skin, grinding my teeth so harshly my jaws ache and pop when I move my bottom jaw around.

 

That’s not the worst part. The worst part is Anders is just about straddling me, having pulled me flush against him, his lips pressed against the hollow of my neck and his pants puffing against my skin, urging goosebumps to rise. I’m pretty sure he can see me with the one eye facing me. His hands are pressed flat against my back, trembling. I pull my nails out of his back and brush my fingers over the wounds with a feather-light touch. Anders shudders and breathes in deeply.

 

 ***** I feel safe. My heart hammers in my chest, but that’s because of Felassan. Anders’s smell reminds me so much of huddling in his cloak or clutching his bundled up cloak to my chest at night.

 

“Anders?” I ask softly. He hums in reply. “Kiss me?”

 

He stiffens for a second before he presses his lips against my neck. “Is this okay?” he asks.

 

I nod. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

 

His answer is another kiss, a few inches higher this time. The next one tickles the hollow underneath my ear, his cold nose brushing against my earlobe. He flicks his tongue against it before nipping at it with his teeth. I bury my head into his shoulder and graze my teeth over his skin. He moans, rolls his hips against mine and rolls on top of me when I wrap my legs around his waist, my hands pinned loosely on either side of my head.

 

He’s heavy. His erection presses against me and my throat constrict, my chest heaves up and down. He’s too heavy.

 

“Off,” I grind out, and he freezes. “Sorry, sorry, can’t breath. Get off.”

 

He scrambles off me, and I roll myself into a tight ball, hugging the pillow to my chest, shivering in the cold and working on deep breaths in and deep breaths out. I grit my teeth together and squeeze my eyes shut, sniffling when a few tears drip on the sheets. Damn it. I bury my nails into the pillow and let out a frustrated groan.

 

“Meredith? Did I do something wrong?” Anders asks, groaning when he bends down. He throws the covers over me, and I pull them around me tightly, my teeth chattering. My hands tremble, and my fingers turn white. My heart drowns out all the other sounds, and my chest is heavy.

 

“N-n-no,” I grind out through chattering teeth. “Not you. Me. I’m an idiot. It’s been one week, and I thought I could have sex with you.”

 

I huff out a breath and let out a sarcastic laugh. “One week and I thought, hey, let’s fuck Anders to see if I can do it without freezing up. Sorry. I almost used you. Maybe it’s better this way.”

 

Anders laughs. “Maybe it’s better if I take control.”

 

What? With a held breath, I squint at him. “Eh, sorry but that makes as much sense as a dog dragging a bone through a fence.”

 

He chuckles. “I’m more of a cat person.”

 

I already know that…?

 

Throwing the covers off, I sit up, staring at him with a frown on my face. “Anders?” I ask.

 

Smirking, he crawls toward me over the bed. “The one and only. What’s wrong? Why don’t you just lay back and enjoy everything I can offer you?”

 

I raise my eyebrows. “What’s the catch?”

 

His laugh raises goosebumps on my arms. “There’s always a catch. Life’s a catch. I suggest you catch it while you can!”

 

Inching back, I grope for a weapon. Anything will do. Either Flemeth decided to visit me and shapeshifted into Anders, or I’m still in the Fade.

 

Yeah, okay, or Anders went off in the deep end.

 

“Justice?” I ask while my fingers close around something shaped suspiciously like a baseball bat. The Fade it is. Crafty little demons. Definitely-Not-Anders leans forward with a roguish smirk, baring wickedly sharp teeth. My heart gallops in my chest. Stay calm, Grethilda. Stay calm. It’s just a stupid demon. Millions of mages encounter demons every night, and they’re fine.

 

Unless your name is Uldred. Or Amelia. Or Sophia Dryden. Wait, she doesn’t count. She was dead. Marethari, then. Oh, and Wylod. Waylon? Williard? Fuck, what was the guy’s name again? Willard? Fuck Willard. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

 

“Wait,” the demon says when I drop the baseball bat in my lap. I sucked at softball and every variant of ball games. On top of that, my mind had the brilliant idea to conjure up one of the kiddie light-weight plastic bats. At least I didn’t come up with-

 

Screeching, a dozen or so bats smack in my face. Their little nails entangle in my hair and scrape over my scalp. I shudder and cover my head with my arms.  Not-Anders hisses and swats them away with big, purple claws. His (her?) tail swishes over the floor and beats one of the bats to the ground, where it lets out a high-pitched whine and dies. My heart clenches, and I bite my lip. Poor little thing. It twitches in its last death-throes. Yikes.

 

I smack the baseball bat in my hand and wince when metal spikes dig right through my palms. Amazeballs. Some lag with my mental conjuring would be considerable, thanks. Not-Anders slices a bat into five bloody leathery ribbons with his claws, and I grimace before pushing myself off the bed, spiked bat at the ready. My aim sucks dishwater, but Not-Anders has the courtesy to swipe at another bat and places himself right in my trajectory. Bullseye. One of his elegantly curved horns breaks, raining fragments through the air. One of them cuts my lip, and I growl under my breath.

 

Spoiler: Desire Demons don’t appreciate getting hit with a baseball bat. So be sure to kill ‘em with the first blow.

 

A bee's nest that wasn’t hanging from the ceiling one minute ago drops down on the ground, cracking and breaking. Desire and I freeze and gape. One dazed bee crawls out of the nest, zig-zagging drunkenly over the bark-like exterior. It takes a few seconds to run its little legs over its head and eyes before its wings buzz to life. Desire creeps forward, has probably been creeping forward for a few seconds while I was staring like a moron, and I bring the baseball bat down on the nest with a roar.

 

Anarchy. Chaos. The beepocalypse. I forgot how terrifying angry bees can be. A yellow and black cloud rises from the destroyed nest, buzzing and roaring. I don’t know if Desire Demons smell sweet because of magic or because I like the smell of mint and oranges, but the bees unanimously decide she’s their first victim. Crawling with angry bees, Desire flails around, her tail upending furniture and her purple fire setting bedsheets on fire. I whack at her with the bat and hit her more out of dumb luck than precision. I keep hitting her until the purple fire fizzles out. I stumble against the wall, coughing and panting. The bat slips out of my trembling fingers.

 

Holy flying fuck. I just killed a demon with a bunch of bats, a bunch of bees and a baseball bat.

 

Smoke wafts into my face.

 

Oh, yeah, and I also set Anders’s Fade bedroom on fire. Time to wake up.

 

“Wake up,” I tell myself.

 

Nothing happens. I grit my teeth.

 

“Wake up.” Again, nothing happens. Bees congregate on Desire’s blackening corpse, picking off strips of meat to take back to their destroyed hive.

 

I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my forehead. If this is Felassan’s dream, I’m screwed. If he sent the Desire Demon after me as a test, I’m screwed.

 

Heat makes the window implode. Is that a thing in reality? In slow motion (because I’m not screwed enough yet) the glittering fragments cannonball through the room. I angle my forearm in front of my face and wince when shards slice through my skin.

 

“Fuck you, Felassan!” I shout at the burning, smoking ceiling while pulling a large shard out of my arm. Lukewarm blood drips down. Glaring at the blood-tipped shard, I sigh and place it against my throat. This is going to hurt. Don’t do this at home, people.

 

“Dahn’direlan!” Felassan shouts. “Vyn esaya gera assan i’mar’av’ingala!”

 

“Dhava ‘ma masa!” I shout back.

 

Nope, I have no idea what it means or where it came from. Felassan’s violet eyes widen, the only thing I can see of him through the smoke.

 

“Isreun!” I yell. Which is a shocking word, because Felassan stares, one corner of his lips twitching up. Maybe it’s not that bad a word after all.

 

“I've'an'virelan?” he asks, with his head tilted to the side. He narrows his eyes. “Era'harel?”

 

I roll my eyes, flip him off with one hand, and stab myself in the throat with the other.

 

**Day 31 (14th of Cloudreach) 10:00 AM**

 

Waking up sucks, especially when you’re still in your armor, draped haphazardly over a confused Anders, and digging your nails into your own throat as if you’re trying to rip it out.

 

I drag myself up into a sitting position and blink at Anders, who stares at me with sleepy eyes and parted lips.

 

“Sorry. Nothing happened between us, as you can see because I’m not naked. But you are. Maybe wear some clothes next time?” I babble. Anders looks down at himself and blushes.

 

“Anyway, I’m leaving. Got elven lexicons to do and stuff to find. You know, life in general. Uh, bye?” I’m up and halfway through the door when I look over my shoulder. Anders’s wide eyes follow me when I wave and dash out of the Clinic.

 

Rotating my sore shoulders and stretching my cramped fingers, I sigh and start making my way toward the Docks. Figures I’d go to the clinic to apologize and leave without apologizing. Crap, I left Feynriel in the Hanged Man without instructions about what to do next. I didn’t even ask him for help! With a sigh, I slam my hand on my forehead. Ugh. I’m also late. No doubt Thrask thinks I died. Again.

 

Is it too late for a refund? Yeah, it probably is. I've passed the thirty days mark and all.

 


	21. Part Two: The Red Hand

* * *

Let the blade pass through the flesh,

Let my blood touch the ground,

Let my cries touch their hearts.

 

_-Andraste 7:12_


	22. Wisps

**Poll results**

**[Merethilda writes a letter to...](https://i.imgur.com/TBiKO99.png) **

**[Spirit Warrior reveal](https://i.imgur.com/prOs3kG.png) **

**[Badassery](https://i.imgur.com/NPgu1MI.png) **

**[Mahariel and Tamlen](https://i.imgur.com/iJSvgxD.png) **

**[Ouch Y'all. I'm going to burst into 'The heart does go on'. (Who dies at the end survey)](https://i.imgur.com/pcnsuZQ.png) **

* * *

 

 

**Day 40 (25th of Cloudreach) 05:00 AM**

Marethari’s sleeping spell turned out to be residual magic from the ritual. Reciting the words now accomplishes zilch. Back to helicopter view for my dreams. Dream Me adapts well to the dire situation she’s in, herding the Bereskärns to obscure hiding places. In a show of acrobatics awake me doesn’t possess, she balances bare-footed on the back of one bereskärn and backflips through the air on the back of another. A second later, ice magic crackles in the air and freezes the tips of the spines on the previous bereskärns back. With a roar, three of the bears branch off from the main pile and tear into a Despair Demon floating too close to the ground.

 

Dream Me twirls her steel quarterstaff above her head, hitting a Pride Demon coming too close.

 

Felassan lingers at the edges of my dream, guarded and alert. Always watching, always there. Sometimes I wake up with the afterimage of his violet eyes burned on my retinas. Dream Me hasn’t once called out to him for help yet. Attagirl. If she weren’t me, I’d give her a boks. I can fist pump my right hand with my left hand when I’m awake if I want to.

 

The pile of Sloth Demons takes residence in the Western Approach, Tainted even in the Fade. Until we’re chased out by a gazillion Darkspawn, Dream Me panics, Fade-steps the hell out of Dodge and loses track of the pile and wanders around through a miserable drizzle on her own. I wake up before she gets anywhere.

 

I fill a bath with steaming water, toss in a sachet of mint, rosemary, and vanilla and stay in the bathtub until the water goes lukewarm. When I got home a week ago after spending the night at Anders’s, Thrask had already sent out search parties (he’d had the dungeons checked first, this time) and Orsino was close to writing my eulogy. I didn’t snag it from his desk when he wasn’t looking, I didn’t read it, and it wasn’t heartwrenching and incredibly touching. I didn’t have to fight tears — no sir.

 

I should’ve put it back, but I couldn’t bring myself to it. Orsino would destroy it anyway, out of misplaced shame or embarrassment. I stashed it in one of Niana’s empty poison bottles underneath my bed. Maker knows why it’s underneath my bed, but who am I to question my Tranquil?

 

After securing a rebellious lock of hair behind my ear with a small metal hairclip, I don my armor and clank out toward the Gallows. Today is The Day. Harrowing Day. Skipping breakfast is a wise precaution. The courtyard is empty when I cross it, save for one Tranquil who insists on counting the bricks or something like that. He finds it calming and balancing. Eh. All righty then. Now and then, I suggest keeping a tally. He might’ve been OCD before he got Tranquilized. His expression was interesting. Almost scandalized, as if I’d suggested dressing Andraste’s statue in Antiva’s finest neglige.

 

Oh well. Every Tranquil knows my door is always open for them, day and night, no matter what it’s about. Even for a chat even if they wake me up at 3 in the morning. So far, no luck.

 

In front of the Harrowing chamber’s closed doors, I come to a halt. Shit. I should’ve set a few things in order before starting my day. Writing letters, administrative stuff and such. Ugh. Fingers crossed Anders has something to ease headaches and potential Harrowing PTSD. If Karras hasn't given me PTSD already.

 

I lean against the wall next to the doors with closed eyes, hands clasped behind my back. The stones are rough and the cement brittle, breaking off and sticking underneath my nails. I swallow against the lump in my throat. My heart drums against my chest. I’d rather spend the rest of the day in bed, but duties are duties. This Harrowing is going to take long; we’ll have to jump through hoops and fight for our lives, yadda yadda yadda.

 

There. Now it can only turn out to be easy, right? Or at the very least, my expectations will come true, and I’m prepared for a shitstorm.

 

Thrask and Cullen are the first to enter the corridor. Thrask smiles at me for a second, before unlocking the door and slipping through. Cullen doesn’t even look at me, his fists clenched by his sides and his mouth set into a tight grimace. The last Harrowing he went to was Solona’s. What would it be like to oversee Anders’s Harrowing, or Orsino’s and know I’ll have to kill them if they took too long, or turned into abominations? Especially knowing Jowan’s ritual.

 

Bile insists on rising to my throat, and I keep swallowing it back down. Nervous butterflies flutter through my stomach, around the damn brick sitting in the pit. And the urge to pee keeps coming back even though I’m pretty sure my bladder is beyond empty. Fingers crossed I won’t wet myself in my sleep during the Harrowing.

 

Ha, how would they handle that?

 

I tug at the straps on my waist. Certainty remains in its weapon rack in my bedchambers. My pointy stick is still laying around under Arianni’s couch. Has she found it yet? Heh, maybe she used it as a curtain rail. I feel naked without weapons. My mouth goes dry at the reason for the precaution.

 

Even though Thrask and Cullen have orders to _not_ engage in combat right away, should either of us fall to a demon or spirit, they are allowed to defend themselves. If push comes to shove, and Orsino or I would do more harm than good, they’ll kill us. My heart skips a beat, and I wipe my sweaty palms on my chainmail pants. My throat tightens, my chest heaves up and down. Damn it. Breathe through your diaphragm. Keep it together.

 

I don’t want to die. Not even if I were an abomination and not myself anymore. There’d always be a part of me in there, right? That part would be forced to watch the blade arcing for my neck, or coming toward my chest. That part would be screaming and begging them to stop. Unheard.

 

A shiver goes through my spine. Bare feet move over the tiles in a soundless rhythmic cadence when Orsino arrives. With a nod and a smile, he leans against the wall across from me; his fingers splayed out over the bricks. I smile when he drums his fingers against the wall.

 

“Nervous?” I ask with raised eyebrows and a reassuring smile. More of a grimace. A hue of pink appears on his cheeks, and I smirk. He gives me a shy smile, looking up at me through his eyelashes. Awww. He’s so damn cute when he’s shy. What would he do if I kissed him on the cheek? Blush himself into an aneurysm? Run in circles from exuberance? Squeal and flee? I close my lips and bite on my tongue, but my shoulders still shake with the laughter I’m keeping back. My lips twitch, and my cheeks ache.

 

“A little,” he admits, tilting his head to the side. He clasps his hands behind his back. “It has been years since my Harrowing.”

 

He meets my eyes. “You stood watch at it,” he says in a gentle tone.

 

Crap. My eyes dart around. We’re waiting for Alistair, who’s late. Grrr. Alistair, Cullen, and Thrask are the few Templars I trust. Cullen might be a bit of a wild card. For all I know he’ll get twitchy and paranoid half an hour in and cut us to bits. It’d make one hell of an urban legend one age later. The Ghosts of the Gallows, tormenting the souls of the ones that do make the Harrowing. Out of jealousy or malice. Ha.

 

I purse my lips. “I did.”

 

With an exhale, he blinks and shrugs. Not the reaction he was hoping for, then. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not the girl who stood watch at your Harrowing. I’ll be here for your second Harrowing, and what’s more, I’ll be right beside you. How’s that for earning more points than Stannard? Hm, brownie points.

 

My stomach gurgles and I roll my eyes and point to it. “Excuse my stomach. By now hoping for an exit without getting ill is a vain hope.”

 

Orsino grimaces. “Yes, it can be quite jarring. I couldn’t get out of bed for days.”

 

He smiles. “You brought me tea.”

 

I kind of smile/grimace and fiddle with the straps of my armor, avoiding his eyes. “How nice. The good old days, huh?”

 

Fabric shifts when he coughs, and since I’m looking down, I catch his toes wriggling. I shake my head. “Aren’t you cold? It’s Cloudreach.”

 

With one side of his lips pulled up into a wry smile, he shakes his head and wriggles his toes again. “No. Ask any elf, even the Alienage ones, and they’ll tell you they never get cold feet. It’s…”

 

He frowns, searching for words to explain, and I shrug. “An elf thing?” I suggest. Dimples appear in his cheeks when he smiles.

 

“I suppose it could be,” he amends.

 

Good. Next time Orsino broaches uncomfortable subjects I have no memories of, ask him about his feet. Maybe I should ask him if he can bend each one of his toes separately, next time. Ha, at the end of the week, Orsino will think I have a foot fetish. Not that he doesn’t have cute feet. Is that an elf thing, too? How they all have long toes without annoying little hairs growing out of it? His nails are clipped nicely, and clean. I guess you spend a lot of time on your feet hygiene when you’re walking around barefoot all day. Who’d want everyone to see their ingrown toenails? Or warts. Yikes. Blisters get a pass, but athlete’s foot? Are elves immune to athlete’s foot? Can we make a vaccine out of their foot sweat? Ew, stinky feet.

 

I breathe in deeply through my mouth, as I’m just taking a deep meditative breath. Hm, Orsino smells nice. Not Anders-nice as in elfroot and healing potions and dusty feathers and soap, but still lovely. He smells like vellum. Plants. Water. Wait, does water even have a smell? Oh, no, got it. I’m smelling ozone. Lightning. Storm mage. I tuck in my chin. This is ridiculous. There’s no way I can detect that. I grit my teeth and roll my eyes at myself.

 

Orsino narrows his eyes and tilts his head to the side. “Are you all right?”

 

Squaring my shoulders, I smile brightly and nod. “Uhu. Sure. I’m fine. Fine and dandy.” When he looks away for a second, I roll my eyes to the side, widen them and grimace. Tucking my hands behind my back, I lean against the wall again and tap my fingers against it. Uuugh, Alistair, get over here already and break this awkward tension. Maybe I should ask Orsino if he clips or files his toenails? Oooh, when is his birthday, I’ll give him a file and a clipper. My lips twitch.

 

Alistair barges past us, his Templar helmet tucked under his arm. His hair is unruly, and his eyes are wild. He forewent his cape and mud cakes his boots.

 

I raise my eyebrows. “Where were you? And you’re supposed to wear that helmet before you go in, you know. So we don’t recognize you. You know, in case you have to chop us to bits.” I point to the helmet.

 

Both Orsino and Alistair blanch. Alistair sucks in his bottom lip and grazes over it with his teeth. Orsino chuckles and shuffles his feet. Finally, Alistair coughs and lifts his eyes to me.

 

“And you promised me I wouldn’t have to stand guard at any Harrowings.” He says it in his usual cheerful tone, but his eyes narrow and his jaw sets.

 

Shrugging apologetically, I give him my best sheepish look. “Sorry. I’m just still waiting for a list of Templars, and you’re the only one I know for sure won’t be on it.”

 

Frowning, he peers at me. “What kind of list?”

 

“Uhhh…” I hedge, giving Orsino a side-eyed glance. Fix my mess. Help.

 

Orsino blinks, musters a smirk and claps Alistair on the back. “Nothing you have to worry about, my friend. Shall we?” And he shoves and drags Alistair toward the doors. I shake my head and sigh, closing my eyes for a second. Thank God.

 

The Harrowing chamber is dome-shaped, with a high ceiling and no windows at all. Figures, since it’s in the middle of the Gallows and cut off from natural light: Gah, another labor rights violation. This room is fit only to house a printer and a copying machine, damn it. What? Thedas doesn’t have those? Oh, I know, let’s stuff terrified mages in it instead! And if they get nervous and freak out, let’s chop off their heads! See you on Monday, everyone!?

 

Biting on my tongue to keep the hysterical giggle inside, I shuffle inside behind Orsino. Thrask and Cullen, who are on either side of the doors, close them behind us. The heavy thud makes me jump, and I clutch at Orsino’s arm, startled.

 

Darkness.

 

“Oh God,” I whisper under my breath, digging my fingers into Orsino’s arm. There’s no light at all. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them widely. The world remains pitch black. I swallow heavily and blow out my next breath slowly. Only to gasp in the next one like I’m snorting a line of cocaine. I grimace. The muscles in my neck cramp at the motion. Ugh.

 

Alistair shuffles next to us, bumps into something and curses. With a loud rattle, a length of chain clashes to the ground. With wide eyes, I whimper and dig my nails into Orsino’s sleeve.

 

“For fuck’s sake, Rutherford, I told you to put those in the other room!” Thrask shouts. Cullen stammers and stutters his way through an apology while Alistair tries to collect the chains, which results in more rattling. Tears burn behind my eyes. Fuck this. I’m not crying. It’s just chains, for fuck’s sake. They’re not going to roll them around me and toss me out the window. Ha! Got it? There aren’t any windows here? Haha… ha? Ugh. Never mind.

 

What do they do with those chains? Tie up unwilling mages and force them to go through their Harrowing kicking and screaming? That can’t be right. Stannard would jump at the chance to Tranquilize mages, especially if they were willing.

 

This room is where they get Tranquilized.

 

Shit. And here I go dragging Cullen in. I should’ve gone with just Thrask and Alistair. But you know, they’d probably hesitate if anything did happen. Cue to a citywide massacre.

 

Thrask stumbles around. Two rocks click together, and a spark flies. It’s like a firefly. Be it drunk, disoriented and steadily crashing for the earth. For a second, the glow alights on a teepee of branches before it fizzles out pathetically. Thrask lets out an amused chuckle and tries again. This time one spark joins the first, but they both die out pretty quickly.

 

Alistair scoffs. “Remember how I spent an entire year camping all through Ferelden?” he offers sarcastically.

 

Thrask sighs and bashes the rocks together again. This time the sparks remain for a little longer, and he blows on them. Until they’re out. Oh jeez. Someone put this man out of his misery and quickly — muscles bunch underneath Orsino’s arm when he flexes his wrist and flicks his fingers toward the makeshift firepit. Thrask curses and jumps back, waving and blowing at his hands. Orsino shifts next to me.

 

“My apologies. I only wanted to assist,” Orsino says. Thrask scoffs and shakes his head. Ohmygod, his beard got singed! Oh, the poor soul! I press my lips together and pry my fingers off Orsino’s arm.

 

“So, uh…” I hedge, giving Alistair a wide-eyed pleading look. His mouth falls open before he shakes himself, dragging his fingers through his hair.

 

“Right,” he chirps. “So let me get this straight, see if I paid attention the last time I was in training.”

 

Thrask furrows his brow. I shrug in response and suppress a wince.  Morrigan was right: his acting is atrocious.

 

Alistair goes on, unaware we’re all cringing at his performance. He waves at a marble pillar with a bowl on it, filled to the brim with a bright blue liquid. Lyrium.

 

“They touch that, we do our best to catch them before they bash their heads on the floor, and then we twiddle our thumbs and count the bricks in the walls until they wake up?”

 

Cullen stifles a snicker and Thrask sighs wearily. “Excellent summary, Ser Alistair. But yes, that is what is going to happen.”

 

I give Alistair a thumbs up when Thrask and Cullen take their eyes off me to exchange a dubious look. With a shrug, I gesture to the bowl, meeting Orsino’s eyes.

 

“Let’s not keep the gentlemen for much longer. They have thumbs to twiddle,” I say. Cullen snickers and tries to hide it behind a cough. Alistair mutters something about feet in his mouth. Orsino chuckles, and I can’t help but grin.

 

I walk around the pillar and scrutinize the bowl. It’s just a sphere made out of smooth white-blue marble. The lyrium accentuates the blue veins in the sculpture, or maybe it caused them in the first place. I tap my fingers against the pillar and look up at Orsino questioningly. He takes his place across from me and hovers his hand above the bowl. I do the same.

 

“Uh,” I say. “Count from one to three?”

 

Cullen snickers again, and I glare at him with narrowed eyes.

 

“Will you stop that?!” I snap. Orsino grabs my hand and yanks it down into the bowl. With a yelp, I try to jump away from the cold lyrium. Jeez, couldn’t they’ve warmed it up a-

 

I flail my arms around when I drop from the sky and smack on my belly on an island of green mist.

 

little?

 

With a groan, I roll out of the way just in time for Orsino to smack against the ground next to me instead of on top of me. He winces and turns on his back, panting and laughing.

 

“This is not the normal landing. I don’t know what went wrong,” Orsino sputters through grins. I scramble to my feet and glare at him, my hands on my hips.

 

“I think it was the surprise of you grabbing my arm.”

 

He blinks up at me and grimaces, sitting up and rotating his shoulders with a wince. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. I only wanted to help.”

 

Rolling my eyes, I huff a lock of hair out of my eyes and stare off into a land of green mist. The pressure behind my eyes is already building. Damn it. One headache is coming up, and for free. Lovely. With a sigh, I shake my head and stretch my arms above my head. Something cottony and light tickles my belly when I do, and Orsino mutters a ‘Maker’s breath.’ under his breath.

 

Huh? Oh for fuck’s sake, what did my mind come up with now? I look down at myself and clamp my hand over my mouth, my eyes crinkling with laughter. It’s my standard work-out outfit for when I’m doing yoga. Meaning: There’s more naked skin than fabric on me. A little elastin hotpants no longer than my thighs and a crop top leaving my belly bare and no straps.

 

Spoiler alert: I practiced yoga in my yard or my home, alone. Meaning I ditched the sports bra. The crop top not having any straps means it’s a tight fit, as in bunch up your breasts close — Push-Up the breasts show off those nipples no matter the temperature tight.

 

“Uh. Oops?” I offer sheepishly. Orsino might as well have been a tomato and I laugh and turn around. Can Meredith do yoga? I shrug and kick out my legs, dropping into a plank with my hands folded together parallel to my breastbone. Shit, I could keep this up for hours. Orsino draws in a deep breath, and I grin to myself. Poor man. Let’s put him out of this misery. I shift my legs underneath myself and push myself up, automatically stretching my arms above my head, fingers interlaced. OMG, I’ve got abs. Aaaaabs.

 

“Sorry about that. It’s been a while since I’ve done this and it’s still addicting,” I tell Orsino, who keeps looking away only to glance back and blush all over again. His jaw clenches and his cheeks dimple, the corners of his mouth strain with keeping back a smirk.

 

“Ah. Yes. I suppose we have some time. Go ahead. I shall…” Orsino frowns. “Go over there.” He points at one of the towering, ominous statues. What the fuck are they? Whenever I was playing the game I just ignored all the codexes, grabbed them online and read them in bed with a mug of hot cocoa. I ain’t got time for this shit when I have to save the world, after all.

 

Orsino walks away, his fingers fiddling with wisps floating in the air around him. They pulsate and spark when he touches them and roll and weave through the air, almost like playing puppies. One of the wisps near me promptly turns into the most adorable labrador puppy the Fade has ever seen, rolls on its belly and barks without sound. With a smirk, I crouch down and give it a good belly rub. The wisp barks and jumps to its incorporeal little feet to lick my face, before turning back into a glowing ball and shooting away. Damn. Where can I get one of those?

 

I shake my head and drop into down dog, hissing when something stabs into my right hand. Shooting through my knees, I fumble in the grass and scoop up a small bracelet. It warms in my palm, and I drop it out of surprise, and it falls to the ground with a shattering sound. Crap, please tell me I didn’t break it. Please. I pinch a link between my thumb and index finger and hold it up. In the Fade light, it glows a bright silver. I give it a shake and hold my breath when the links collide with the sound of breaking glass. Silverite. Hell yeah.

 

Laughing out loud, I dangle it in front of my face and squint at the little charm attached to the chain. It’s a small silver coin, about two inches, with the tiniest carving of a fang in the middle. The Amulet of the packmaster? Poison resistance bonus? Hell if I know. I tuck my thumb against my palm and slide it over my fingers, tugging and wrestling until it glides over my hand and settles comfortably around my wrist. Clasps are overrated anyway.

 

“They like you,” Orsino says from behind me. I almost jump out of my skin and let out a little yelp, jumping to my feet and whirling around. He steps back with his hands held out and a sheepish expression on his face. I roll my eyes and lay my hand on my chest.

 

“I think I’ve had my recommended dose of heart attack for the day,” I say with a chuckle. Orsino smiles and shakes his head. He juts out his chin to something behind me.

 

“Look there,” he says. I turn around and squint, my eyes darting around. Remember how I said I couldn’t trace a pointing finger? Yeah, good luck trying to determine someone’s line of sight. Blegh.

 

The Black City is hard to miss, though. Shrouded in mist and shadows, it looks like it’s ridiculously closeby. The fog is thin enough to reveal a dusty golden path serving as the main road, stretching out all the way to the city’s surrounding ramparts. Frowning, I follow the road back to where it disappears around a bend and a hill. I’ll bet we won’t be able to find it. Not while we’re asleep, at least.

 

What if I went in with Moth? Could I make it all the way to the Black City? Yeah, and then what? Stand there like a moron and knock on the front gate? Step on a pressure plate first thing and get blown to pieces? For all I know, Moth might be some servant to the Maker and eat me after all, for despoiling his Master’s house.

 

“It’s beautiful even with all the Taint,” I say dryly. Orsino exhales deeply behind me. I shrug and turn toward the main path of our island, which should lead to another island or a portal or whatever.

 

“Off we go,” I say, gesturing for him to go first. Hey, don’t look at me like that, I’m sure as hell not catching the first hits. He’s a mage; he can barrier himself. I’m a Seeker. All I can do is set lyrium veins on fire. I think. Hm, it’s something to keep in mind.


	23. Sebastian

****Day 40 (25th of Cloudreach) 12:00 PM** **

 

“Please, please,  _ please _ , Sebastian, Schloomples will behave. He’s the most well-mannered nug on the continent, you’ll see,” Leliana pleads, her hands intertwined. Her big, round eyes look up at him, pleading. She bats her thin red eyelashes. Sebastian digs his nails into his palms, biting his tongue. This is ridiculous. 

  
  


“Can’t you take him with you?” he asks against better judgment. Leliana arches her eyebrows, her lips tugging downwards. With her hands on her hips, she raises her chin and looks at him with mocking eyes. 

  
  


“Are you suggesting I take a nug to Hightown’s shops?” she asks in clipped tones. Sebastian shrugs, his mouth hanging open. He closes his eyes for a few seconds and shakes his head. 

  
  


“This Chantry stands on Hightown’s ground,” he points out, hands hanging at his sides. Leliana tilts her head to the side with a sharp motion. 

  
  


“Does it, now?” she asks. He pinches the bridge of his nose, blows out a deep breath and sets his jaw, squaring his shoulders. 

  
  


“Andraste preserves me,” he mutters. “All right, Leliana. I’ll watch Schloomples. But only for the afternoon,” he’s quick to add.

  
  


Leliana lets out a happy little squeal high-pitched enough to wake up Archdemons. Sebastian hides his flinch by turning around and studying the nearest incense-bearing statue. Would Elthina mind if he drew Schloomples through incense smoke to get rid of the nug smell? Or maybe Leliana bathes the poor animal in Orlesian perfume. He grimaces. 

  
  


“Thank you, Sebastian! I’m sure Hawke will appreciate it,” Leliana says, pulling him into a hug and planting a feather-light kiss on his cheek. Heat creeps into his cheeks and he shuffles backward toward the back room hands held high, almost tripping over the cord closing off the stairs from the general public. Leliana is too busy urging Elthina to come with her to notice, thank the Maker. 

  
  


“I doubt Hawke would appreciate my presence, child,” Elthina says, amused. 

  
  


Frowning, Leliana taps her fingers to her bottom lip and whirls on him. “Oh!” she says, holding up her index finger. “Don’t forget to give Schloomps his mid-day bath, with lukewarm water. And a snack, but no honey, just carrots. Unless his poor belly is swollen again, carrots will just make it worse. Maybe it’s best to stick with cucumber slices.” 

  
  


With a strained smile and somewhat crazed eyes, Sebastian inches away. Leliana’s cat-like eyes follow him. She narrows them. “Do not give him bread. My baby is a bread-free nug, yes? It gives him terrible cramps and makes him feel woozy in the head.” 

  
  


Exchanging a side-eyed glance of incredulity with a nearby sister almost makes him burst into laughter. He clenches his jaw and dares to nod once. How on Thedas does a nug tell a human its head feels woozy? Does it shake it and wobble around? 

  
  


“Perhaps I shall bring him to Anders, just in case?” he offers. In the background, Elthina chuckles. The sister, crouching down to tend to the burned-up candles, freezes before a tremor passes through her shoulders. She lets out a polite cough/bark and Sebastian strokes his chin to hide a smirk. 

  
  


Leliana frowns. “Only if it’s the last option,” she hedges, chewing her lip. “Rats scare him.” 

  
  


“The Healer or the nug?” the sister mutters under her breath. Sebastian presses his lips together and stares at the vaulted ceiling. Andraste forgive the itching laugh in his chest. 

  
  


“I’m sure they’ll be fine, Leliana. Or do you doubt Sebastian’s honor when it comes to tending animals?” Elthina calls out from her dais. Startled, Leliana’s wide eyes meet his. 

  
  


“No, no, that wasn’t what I meant to say, of course not. I just meant… Anders is a Grey Warden, I stopped counting the times Alistair called Schloomples lunch… it’s the appetite. I hope.” She trails off, frowning. Sebastian sighs. In the Chantry, he’d learned to be patient. He’d learned to pay his full attention to someone who wanted to discuss the troubling trivialities of life. No-one had prepared him for the whirlwind that was Leliana. 

  
  


How did Meredith bear it? How could she request for a flowery retelling of Andraste’s story again and again, or Flemeth’s, or Maferath’s, or a recounting of their battles against dragons, or about what kind of plants they picked on the way, or who went where and when? Sometimes it was as if Meredith lived on Blight stories as if she fed her soul with them. Sebastian shakes his head and takes the steps two at a time. Some would think he did it to get away from Leliana, but he just preferred the quiet sanctuary of solitude. It had nothing to do with a sense of impending doom about the nug out of his sight. 

  
  


In Starkhaven, he’d manned falcons and hawks. He’d flown them, preened their feathers, urging himself to be patient whenever branchers or haggards bated from his leather glove or their perch. Where nugs had captured Leliana’s heart, raptors had driven their talons deep into his. Falconing and archery work well together, as counter-intuitive as it sounds. Let a hawk fly free and stoop, rouse or mantle and onlookers will watch the hawk instead of their surroundings. Nock, aim and let the arrows fly, and your enemies are dead. Reward the hawk with a chicklet or a tiring and they’ll perch and eat, freeing your hands to search the corpses. 

  
  


What would the mews and eyries look like now? Sebastian locks the door to Elthina’s chambers, a thousand blood-tipped feathers in his head. They drift on the wind, lighter than snow. Dead birds, their majestic wings stretched out or bent and broken in unnatural angles. Sharp beaks opened in an everlasting shrill alarm, their skulls broken.

  
  


Starkhaven raptors imprint on their masters, like Fereldan Mabari and Tevinter Faelium. They would’ve killed the haggards and eyasses already imprinted and bred the ones yet unbound. 

  
  


Queasiness settles in his stomach and he rests his forehead against the golden door, breathing out. Schloomples snuffles around his boots, squealing and snorting. Sebastian scoops Schloomples up into his arms and scratches him behind his right ear. Schloomples wriggles around in delight. 

  
  


“Does bread and carrots sound like a good meal to you, little guy?” Sebastian asks cheerfully. Schloomples hoinks in assent, wriggling his nose under Sebastian’s armpit. 

  
  



	24. Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sensitive NSFW-parts concerning Fenris's flashbacks are marked with asterisks so you can skip them if you want.
> 
> For * Ctrl + F “You forgot, didn’t you?” to skip (with or without quotation marks)
> 
> For ** Ctrl + F “whistle drags him back to the present” to skip (without quotation marks)
> 
> I am by no means implying Fenris is a masochist. I do think there are many coping strategies out there.

  ** **Day 40 (25th of Cloudreach) 01:08 PM****

 

Panting, Fenris jumps, wedging his toes in the seams on a high wall, holding his breath until his calloused skin finds grip. Blood paints the wall red, almost making him slip when he hauls himself up by the strength in his arms. He scrambles, seeking a ledge where the wall offers no reprieve. Distant shouts fill his ears, and he huffs out a breath through his nose, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the cold stone. The wall stands between two empty, decrepit mansions.

 

His contact, who’d told him Danarius’s wayward concubine lived here and stored information about Danarius’s most prized slaves, turned out to work for Danarius. Or maybe they’d played the double game, crossing them both. It wouldn’t be the first time an ambitious magister used the slaves of another, or his own, to get rid of competition. The slave, sworn to secrecy through blood magic, or his memories erased, would be executed either way.

 

How many times has Danarius wiped him clean like a wine-stained table? How many times has Fenris been dragged along to some magister’s home, only for the son or daughter to challenge Danarius? He doesn’t remember. He won’t remember. And yet sometimes, he swears something echoes in the back of his head. The crackle of Hawke’s fire magic, or the intense hunger for power in her eyes when she resorts to blood magic. Looking down at the blood dripping from his chest and abdomen, and the shiny pink flesh coated in red and black, he grits his teeth.

 

If Hawke had been here, she would have defended him. She would’ve bared her teeth in a wicked grin and twisted his blood into a spell of her own, yes, but she wouldn’t have left him to die. He presses his hand against a burning cut and swallows heavily against the bitter taste in his mouth. Decay with a hint of mold. Poison. Sweat drips down his forehead into his cracked lips, and he winces. Wetting his lips, he takes a few deep breaths and looks up. A bright blue expanse of sky stretches out between the two manors. Venhedis. Figures they’d find him on the first sunny day in winter.

 

He abandons the wall in favor of sprinting around the corner and heading in the direction opposite his pursuers. His abdomen contracts and burns at every step he takes and his throat burns from the icy air he forces into his lungs. Tears from the cold air blur his vision. He presses on regardless, crossing paths with no-one. The inhabitants of Hightown do what they always do: hide in their homes, keep their doors locked, peeking out of the window from time to time for a glance on the spectacle of an escaped slave being pursued. They will not help him, no matter how much rage burns through his blood at their disregard.

 

A lightning bolt slams into the ground right from Fenris and he veers to the left, narrowly jumping over a bear trap. Either the Vints came prepared, or some idiot noble had planted it in the middle of the street for no reason. Some of them were like that, getting bored with their upper-class parties, their upper-class wines, and their upper-class families.

 

“Stop this, Fenris!” one of the mages yells, a woman with short black hair cut in a bob. He looks over his shoulder with a frown. Most of them shout ‘slave’ or ‘property.’ None of them have ever called him by his name. His eyes widen when a slender pointed ear pokes out of her hair. An elf. An apprentice to a magister perhaps? Why would she be hunting a slave such as him? Shaking himself, Fenris darts around a corner and blindly zips from place to place with the power his lyrium tattoos allow him.

 

The streets become well less kept the further he goes, and with a curse, he spins around. The mage is right on his tail, her short robes flapping around her thighs. Her skin is mahogany brown; her eyes are large and round. Her nose is small, her nostrils flared. Her strides cover the same distance as his; her legs are all muscle covered by a thin layer of skin.

 

Panting, Fenris presses his hands to his abdomen and doubles over from pain, blood dripping steadily from between his fingers. The scent of copper and iron fills his nose and mouth, and he forces himself to breathe in and out despite the pain. She comes to a stop a few steps away, tilting her head and smirking in triumph. Fenris grits his teeth and shakes his head.

 

“Your name?” Fenris grinds out through pants.

 

“Master calls me Rena,” she chirps, pulling two daggers out of sheaths on her hips. She circles around him, her brown eyes never leaving him. Squeezing his eyes shut, Fenris forces himself to straighten. He opens his eyes and scoffs. The black tattoos swirl and knot around her lips, over her cheekbones and her forehead. They meander from her jaws down to her neck and over her bare shoulders. And from her shoulders down to her hands, her fingers. No doubt they cover her chest and abdomen and legs, too.

 

“You’re my replacement, then? A mage?” he coughs and starts when blood covers his bottom lip. He wipes it away and stares at his bloodied fingers, swallowing slowly. Iron rolls over his tongue.

 

Rena clicks her tongue and spins her daggers in her hands idly, placing one foot before another and moving in sidesteps.

 

“I am,” she confirms, her eyes sharp and eager. Black tattoos swirl around her neck and throat, disappearing behind a silverite collar. Venhedis. He’s only seen one before. They're for privileged slaves. Slaves who willingly serve their masters with everlasting devotion, rewarded with something almost like equality to their masters. Who carry themselves with confidence knowing they are untouchable; who trust their master to have their best interests at heart.

 

Once locked, the seams disappear. It’s old magic, Sidereal magic, permeating every fiber of a slave’s being and binding them to their master and their collar. Remove it by force, and the slave’s soul is forfeit.

 

“And if I kill you, his prize, he will make me stronger.”

 

For a few seconds, he stares at her incredulously. Why would anyone willingly serve a monster like Danarius? Pain throbs at the base of his skull, in his forehead, behind his eyes, and he squints. There’s a flash in which gravity falls away.

 

*Lashes burn on his back, blood leaves his cheeks when he stands up. He wobbles on unsteady legs, planting his feet firmly into a lush red carpet on the floor. The evening sun casts triangles of colored light on it. An arm catches him, fingers pry his fingers apart and press his palm to warm lips. Fenris looks up through tear-filled eyes and meets Master’s eager, admiring eyes.

 

“Seventy-five lashes,” Master says, awe in his sharp voice. “You took seventy-five lashes and still stand. You, little wolf, are nothing short of amazing. And I will make you stronger.” Fenris forces his lips into a smile, even though moving makes him more light-headed. Master strokes his back with soothing healing magic, and warmth of pride bubbles up in Fenris’s chest. He trembles from exertion and leans his head against Master’s chest, listening to a steady heartbeat. Master strokes through his hair with his long, thin fingers and hums a Tevinter melody. Wrong. Being so weary and warm and comfortable is wrong. He knows that. He can’t bring himself to open his eyes and lift his head.

 

All thoughts of running, all half-formed plans of killing Rena are gone. He gapes at the wild elven mage in front of him, blood dripping out of his wounds, tears stinging his eyes. His legs tremble, his arms shake, his shoulders tremble. Even his lips quiver, splattered with blood and gore. His lips part and form the words caught in his throat.

 

‘And I will make you stronger.’ Fenris opens his eyes a crack and looks down at the blue lines meandering over his fingers. They’re on his chin, too, but he only sees those when he looks into a mirror, something he doesn’t often do. He looks back up at Rena, who holds her daggers in slackened arms, her head tilted to the side in curiosity.

 

“You forgot, didn’t you?” Rena asks. She rolls her neck, shifts her weight to her heels and crosses her arms over her chest. Gesturing at Fenris with her chin, she taps on her right arm with one finger, the other fingers holding her silverite dagger.

 

“Tell you what,” she says with flared nostrils. “You and I are going to have a chat, and you’re going to give me your blood, your sword, and a lock of your hair. I’m going to drag you to the nearest Healer. Some poor sod is going to have an unfortunate fall down some stairs today, and look, Master, I killed Fenris.”

 

Fenris laughs without humor, swaying on his feet, clutching at his abdomen. He shakes his head and coughs, blood spraying on his lips.

 

“He’ll know you’re trying to fool him and kill you, too.”

 

With a smirk, Rena sheathes her daggers and shrugs. She taps her lips with a sharp fingernail. “Oh, he won’t. It’ll just take planning, that’s all.”

 

The tattoos around her cheeks bunch up when she smiles. “And I happen to make the best plans.”

 

Fenris stumbles forward, and she catches him, nimbly putting his arm around her shoulders and her arm around his waist. He hisses when she touches his wounds, and she chuckles and snaps her fingers. Just like that, the pain vanishes, and when he looks down, no more blood pours from his wounds. He grunts under his breath.

 

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes, I get it. You don’t like blood magic. You’d be in so much trouble if I weren’t a blood mage. First, because you would’ve bled out by now, and second because I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t a blood mage.”

 

She shrugs, nudging him. Fenris grits his teeth.

 

“Someone forgot rule number whatever: Never make a blood mage bleed. Go for the heart, or the head, not the throat.”

 

Fenris closes his eyes and lets her drag him toward Darktown. Go for the heart, not the throat. So if he wants Danarius dead, slitting his throat isn’t going to cut it. The corners of his lips quirk up.

 

“What’s the smile for?” Rena asks cheerfully, tapping his side with her palm. Fenris grunts. She wouldn’t understand.

 

“Oh come on,” she protests, her lips pulling up into a smirk. “Share the funny joke. It’s not like we have anything else to do, hm?”

 

“It was a stupid pun,” Fenris says through grit teeth and half-lidded eyes. At every step toward Darktown, he leans more and more of his weight on Rena.

 

“Go for the heart, because slitting the throat won’t cut it,” he says. Rena snorts. He winces and sucks in a deep breath.

 

“Yeah, that’s a pretty good one. Know any bad poetry?” Rena asks. There’s a spring in her step despite having to haul a wounded elf around. Hightown is empty this time of day, but it won’t be long before they reach Lowtown’s markets, overflowing with ordinary folks on their daily grocery trips.

 

“Not really,” he grunts. Rena shrugs and laughs, a conspiratorial smile on her face. She bats her eyelashes.

 

“You don’t happen to have any tips on how to satisfy the Master, do you?”

 

Do you? Haven’t you? Won’t you? Shouldn’t you? Fenris grinds his teeth together and grumbles under his breath, wincing when it pulls a muscle in his chest. Can’t she ask a question without asking for confirmation? He blanches. Wait, did she just ask him how to-

 

**“He referred to it as ‘dance like the wolves do,’” he finds himself answering dryly. He squeezes his eyes shut when a wave of vertigo threatens to drown him. Soft hands push him down eagerly until he’s on his hands and knees, his legs spread apart. The dark purple bedspreads caress his limbs with a touch of silk. Warm, oiled hands massage the knots from his calves and thighs and patiently knead his tired muscles. Fenris sighs and squirms when the fingers dart over his sides, tickling him mercilessly.

 

“No, no, no, no,” he laughs, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “I surrender! Please, Master, no more!” He’s still laughing, even when the word ‘Master’ leaves his lips. Master chuckles behind him and his hands spread out over his back instead. Nails gently drag over his back, leaving goosebumps and tingles in their wake. They touch the lyrium tattoos tentatively, with feather-light caresses.

 

“Does this hurt, little wolf?” Master breathes when Fenris squirms.

 

“N-no,” he gasps because it doesn’t hurt. Warmth pools in his lower belly, and his groin tightens in anticipation. The hands shift, grazing over his back toward his shoulders, where the fingers curl around in a steady grip.

 

“Good wolf,” Master says, while the covers shift. The weight on the mattress changes and Fenris stares ahead at the black silk curtains that shield the bed from the rest of the world. He smiles, smirks even. He turns his head to the right and kisses the fingers that rest on his shoulder. Master hums with approval. One hand leaves Fenris’s shoulders, caressing his lips and going down to his collarbone. Fenris’s skin warms from the fire magic Master channels, and he closes his eyes and shudders. Down, down, down Master’s hand travels, curling into a firm grip. Just the way he-

 

Rena’s whistle drags him back to the present. He blinks and stares at the lit lanterns of the Clinic.

 

“Well isn’t this a decrepit rat-infested cozy little Clinic?” she asks with mirth in her voice. Fenris grunts, groaning when she lowers him to the ground. His wounds ache, and he hunches over with a wince.

 

Rena chuckles. “Sorry ‘bout that, can’t make the Healer suspicious. Well, here we are. I’ve got everything I need, so best regards to you. Have a nice life.”

 

Stepping forward, she knocks on the Clinic’s closed doors thrice, before running and leaping on the wall. Nimble as a mountain goat, she scales the wall and clears the roof. By the time the doors open, she’s out of sight, and Fenris fights to keep his eyes open, nodding off into unconsciousness every few seconds. Blue and warm yellow light spills over him and forces him to shut his eyes. He scrambles away and loses his balance, splaying out on his side, his fingers curling and uncurling uselessly.

 

“Oh, shit,” the mage says. Fenris huffs in mirthless response, forcing his eyes open. The street leading to Darktown’s bazaar, empty. The merchants and self-proclaimed peacekeepers were probably smart enough to make way for a silverite slave. A slave who has collected not just his blood, but his hair and his sword as well. The sword belonged to Danarius, and to be honest, he couldn’t care less about it. He can get another sword. His mansion is filled to the brim with swords. If the ones in the cellars don’t suffice, he can always take one of the swords decorating the walls.

 

Fenris rolls himself up into a tight ball. “She took my blood. She’ll take it to Danarius.”

 

The mage’s footfall grows nearer, and he blocks the light from the Clinic. He crouches down and puts a hand on Fenris’s shoulder. Fenris scrunches himself up tighter, his fingernails driving into his flesh. He grinds his teeth together until his gums ache in protest.

 

“You’re hurt,” the mage says.

 

Fenris rolls his eyes and scowls. “Death in freedom is better than life in slavery,” he says. “Leave me be.”

 

The mage sucks in a sharp breath, and the hand on Fenris’s shoulder tightens. “I’m a healer, Fenris,” he says. “I’ll be damned if I let you bleed out on my doorstep.” Without warning, he puts one arm underneath Fenris’s knees and back and hauls him off the floor with a groan. Fenris clenches his teeth together even harder and squeezes his eyes shut in frustration when a stifled cry still escapes him.

 

“Flames. How did you make it all the way here without dying?” the healer asks.

 

“Didn’t you listen, mage?” Fenris snaps, glaring. The mage looks healthier than when he first saw him, a long time ago. Those ridiculous feathered pauldrons of his look fresh and new, his cheeks are less sallow and his eyes no longer sunken. Those amber eyes widen in concern.

 

“Danarius has a new pet to parade around,” he goes on, his gut clenching at the bitterness in his voice. “She has a silverite collar. A blood mage. She came to kill me.”

 

The damned mage frowns and bites his bottom lip. “I don’t know, but you look alive to me.” His eyes widen, and he groans, hefting Fenris in his arms and stumbling into the clinic. “At least for the next five minutes, if I don’t staunch that bleeding.”

 

Fenris grumbles in frustration and anger, and maybe he should rip the mage’s heart out while he still can. He wouldn’t see it coming, the world would be free from one more abomination and Fenris would… die. He’d die covered in blood after robbing Darktown from the only healer it has. Sure, Meredith would probably snap her fingers, or whatever it is she’d done to make the Gallows what it was now, and produce a new one out of thin air.

 

She’d also been with Anders the day she’d disappeared. They’d killed Alrik. A corrupt rapist. And then there was Karras. Meredith does what she does to free the mages, which will only end in disaster, but she also rids the world of wretched Templars almost as evil as Tevinter slavers. No doubt the Templars have shipped off one or two or three elven mages to Tevinter with the promise of a free life, only to end up in service to the likes of Hadriana.

 

Fenris blinks when a steaming cup touches his lips. He tries to scowl at the mage, but that’s a hard thing to do with the rim of a cup pressed to your mouth. He narrows his eyes instead. The hands holding the cup are dark with blackened blood and bits and pieces of gore. He tries to tense his abdomen and widens his eyes when nothing responds. It’s as if there’s a void from his chest down to his groin. Startled, he lifts a hand to push the cup away so he can look and asses the damage. His muscles scream and tremble when he raises his arm, and he doesn’t even reach the cup before they give out and his arm flops to the bed lifelessly.

 

The mage frowns and grimaces. Dark purple bags underneath the mage's eyes stand out on pale skin like bruises. “It’s all right. I managed to heal most of them, staunched the bleeding and all, quite a mess.” With one bloodied hand, he wipes blonde hair out of his eyes, leaving a streak of red in his hair and on his forehead. Fenris’s eyes flit down, and he pales, his eyes widening. The floor and the side of the cot are red. The blood has been smeared out, but his reflection still looks back at him, his eyes impossibly wide and his skin pale as death. His lips are almost white and cracked. He tries to moisten them, but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, and he clears his throat, wincing when it results in burning pain.

 

“Yeah, I…” The mage says apologetically, wincing. He lifts the cup to Fenris’s lips and Fenris tips back his head without a second thought. He almost spits out the bitter, dark green liquid when the stench of decay fills his nose and covers his tongue. He manages to control the reflex only for another to override his control. As much as he despises Anders, throwing up in his face isn’t his intention. The mage staggers away, coughing, retching and gagging himself, hunched over and almost walking right into the end of the cot.

 

There’s a roaring laugh from behind them accompanied with slapping on thighs. Fenris wipes his mouth and looks over his shoulders. What does one do in such a situation? Apologize? Blush? Hide underneath the covers? If it had happened in Tevinter, Fenris would’ve wasted no second to throw himself at Danarius’s feet and beg for forgiveness, even half-dead or ill. But he wasn’t in Tevinter, and the mage wasn’t demanding his head on a silver platter, and the stranger dressed in Templar armor is laughing so hard he’s doubled over and tears leak out of the corners of his eyes. The Templar clutches the chainmail on his thighs and lets out a hysterical giggle, shaking his head.

 

The mage, who has obtained a towel while Fenris had been staring wide-eyed at the Templar, tosses the dirty towel at the Templar with a noise of disgust.

 

“Make yourself useful and clean this, Lee. And run the bath while you’re at it,” the mage- Anders, snaps at… Lee. It’s either shorthand or a pet name. Fenris stares at his hands and swallows back bile while his gut churns with unease. With a groan, he draws his knees to his chest and drops his head between them. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Venhedis. Venhedis. Ven-fucking-hedis. What does it matter if Anders has a lover or not? Nothing, that’s what.

 

Lee scoffs and lets the towel fall in a haphazard pile at his feet, that much Fenris can put together from the sounds when he concentrates on his breathing. His stomach churns again, and he breathes in through his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut. His head pounds. Would Anders knock him out with whatever is closest at hand if he asked him politely enough? If he begged enough?

 

He squeezes his eyes shut until stars spark on his eyelids, pressing his lips together and suppressing a whine. Himself, on his knees, staring up at Anders, begging… begging for what, exactly? Anders bares his teeth in a smirk, his eyes looking down at him hungrily, moving forward with a swiftness that scares Fenris. A hand is intertwining in his hair, forcing his head back. His breath leaves him in a hiss while he trembles.

 

Maker. He wants it. He craves it so much bile rises to his throat again. A hiccup escapes his lips, followed by a burp, of all things.

 

“Shit,” Anders mutters, and seconds later something is pressed against Fenris’s throat. A bowl, or a garbage bin, a chamber pot, some container anyway. His stomach contracts and pain shoots through his abdomen, so sharp and unexpected he bites on his tongue and lets out a whine of pain. Tears burn in his eyes and shame burns in his cheeks. Maker’s breath. He’s already embarrassed himself by vomiting right on Anders’s face. He can’t cry now.

 

The air he draws into his lungs in ragged breaths burns his sore throat. The iron taste of blood fills his mouth, and he coughs, spitting out a mouthful of blood. At the sight of the red glob of liquid, his heart skips a beat, and he crumples over the bowl, coughing out the rest of whatever is in his stomach. It can’t be much, but he keeps hiccupping and burping and throwing up and he can’t catch his breath. Tears wet his cheeks, and ragged sobs fill his ears. Why is Anders crying? Besides, why is Anders rubbing his back, anyway?

 

He tenses, drawing up his shoulders and locking his jaw. He makes the mistake of glancing down at the bowl and shudders, hugging himself and closing his eyes quickly. He keeps his eyes shut when Anders walks away, his footsteps receding, a door opening, water running. Something falls and shatters, Anders curses out loud, something about Andraste’s underwear. Fenris scoffs and slumps back on the cot, fighting nausea and pain with every aching breath.

 

When Anders returns, he cracks on eye open and asks: “Why does everything hurt?” in a rasping voice.

 

Anders drags a hand through his hair and shakes his head, rubbing his forehead and blowing out a breath through his nose. “Why does everything hurt? Why does everything hurt?!” he repeats incredulously. There’s anger under the disbelief.

 

Fenris’s head throbs when he follows Anders, pacing in front of the cot, his hands going through his hair and his arms bending when he clutches at his ponytail.

 

“That is what I asked, yes,” Fenris says dryly. Anders stops in his tracks and rubs a hand over the back of his neck, letting out a deep sigh.

 

“Everything hurts,” he says slowly. “Because I had to channel a whole lot of spirits besides Justice to scour the poison from your blood. Whatever they used, whoever they were, they sure wanted to make sure you died slowly and in a lot of pain.”

 

His face scrunches up in disgust at the words ‘spirits’ and ‘Justice.’ “I don’t recall giving you permission to drag spirits into this, mage,” he snaps.

 

Anders’s glare makes him hunch into himself, tucking his chin into his chest and pulling in his shoulders. The burning amber eyes soften a little, but why? Anders puts one quick step forward, bringing up his arm, his hand held flat and taut, and Fenris ducks down, covering his head with his hands, trembling.

 

“Oh, Fenris…” Anders breaths in a strangled voice. Pity drips from the words. Fenris raises his head and bares his teeth at the mage.

 

“Your pity brings me nothing, mage,” he says bitterly. Narrowing his eyes makes his head throb harder, and he sways under the effort of keeping himself somewhat upright.

 

Anders closes his eyes and sighs, shaking his head. When he opens them again, his eyes are strange. When did Anders get so close, anyway? He’s close enough to touch, close enough to see speckles of glowing blue in his amber eyes. Close enough to deliver a sharp smack, if he changes his mind about his pity and decides to punish after all. Fenris closes his eyes and swallows.

 

He hasn’t thought about the punishments Danarius would give him in ages, not since he’d escaped. When he went hungry, curled up in some rain-soaked decrepit, abandoned warehouse, his stomach growling and probably ready to start eating itself, his thoughts would wander back to Hadriana. Danarius never punished him when he overstepped boundaries on purpose. No, Danarius gave him to Hadriana for that. The cruel mistress would lock him up in a cage in the dark, no blankets to keep the freezing night at bay, no food or water. For all that, she never had him racked like her other slaves. He hears them in his dreams, sometimes. Pleading, begging and screaming. Sobbing, raving in madness. Sometimes they begged Hadriana for death, and sometimes she’d deliver. A few times, she’d untie the slave, pick up a sword, point it at their chests and tell them to throw themselves on it, if they wanted to die.

 

He caught the eyes of one of the slaves, just before she threw herself on Hadriana’s blade. Relief. Peace. Acceptance. In a way, there had been a glimpse of freedom in the slave’s eyes. Hadriana caught her and held her up, smirking in delight and then Fenris looked away and stared at the wall, while the girl sucked in rattling breaths into pierced lungs flooding with her blood. He shredded his nails until his fingers bled and kept on going long after the rattling stopped. It was, in a way, why he wore greaves in public.

 

With his teeth, he rips off a strip of his thumbnail and spits it out. Anders frowns and wrings his hands, a grimace plastered on his face, but says nothing. His eyes flit from place to place, and he takes a step away from Fenris, only to take a step back before he even stopped moving. Fenris watches it, ripping off another trip and switching to another nail. Hands tug at his wrists, and he doesn’t fight them when they pull his fingers away from his mouth.

 

“Stop that,” Anders says, his voice raspy. “You’re in Kirkwall. You’re not there, wherever there is. You’re safe.”

 

“Safe,” Fenris repeats tonelessly. He’ll never be safe. Even when Danarius is dead, he's still a slave to Tevinter. Instead, he’ll become the property of whoever Danarius saw fit to leave his slaves to upon his death. Probably Hadriana. And without Danarius to protect him, Hadriana will put on the rack and torture him. There are so many ways to torture him. Touching his lyrium scars alone can make him scream if the right pressure is applied. Or the right equipment. Or the right stones with the right runes.

 

Raw lyrium. Hadriana can use raw lyrium, and he’d beg to serve her willingly until his dying breath.

 

He touched it once by mistake, and it almost cost him his life.

 

Pain shoots through his head, ending right between his eyes, and he groans and clutches at the sheets, smearing blood from his fingers on the white linen. Not that they were entirely white, to begin with, what with the way he almost bled out.

 

“Fenris?” Master asks when a scream is torn from his throat, coming all the way from his toes to his mouth. His lips are parted wide, wide enough for his jaws to cramp up. It’s like the one time Master funneled electricity through his scars to see how the lyrium would react; only Master had been cautious. He’d even taken a diluted dose of magebane beforehand, to weaken his power. Master was calling on another magistrate family, Pevrell, Panus, Savus? The magister wished to discuss his son’s affliction but barely dared to mention what it was, leaving Master with very little to work with.

 

They are mediocre. Boring, even. The afflicted son isn’t present, though Gereon Alexius did attend the meeting for a small time before leaving again, grim-faced and silent. Where Alexius could’ve proven a substantial threat to Master, magister Whatshisname is weak enough for Master to take him out with a snap of his fingers. The fool doesn’t practice blood magic.

 

Bored, Fenris leaned against the wall and shook out his right arm, which was going numb from disuse. His fingers brushed past something brittle and crumbled, that much he registered before the world was a flash of white and convinced him he was dying, that whatever he’d touched was disintegrating him from the inside out.

 

“Fenris!” Master shouts, grabbing him by the shoulders and dragging him away forcibly from the stone he’d touched. Magister Whatshisname called for his wife and son, but not like one usually would in a large mansion. Through the blinding light splitting his skull open, Fenris saw the man touching a white stone on a silver necklace, his mouth forming words drowned out by the ringing in his ears.

 

He remembers little else. Master is pumping furiously on his chest, the cracking of bones and burning pain in his chest. A mouth on his mouth, his head tipped back, and his nose pinched shut. Air is forcibly entering his lungs, his chest rising and dropping. He’s present and yet not. He watches himself from a distance, unseen by the rest, at the same time being in his own body. Balls of light pulse in the room around him, some of them dropping down to the burgundy carpet and coming to a halt at his feet. He bends down and touches one. It fills him with warmth and light, and he gasps for air, his fingers digging into the carpet, his heart thudding wildly against his chest. Master drops to the ground and laughs almost hysterically, and Fenris stares at him in confusion.

 

Magister Whatshisname trips over his own feet to apologize. They go home to Master’s mansion. Master cracks open a bottle of Agreggio and in a rare, confusing bout of generosity, shares it with Fenris. He ends up curled up on the couch at Master’s side, one of Master’s arms draped over his shoulder. He listens to Master’s even breaths. He hasn’t taken off his weapons. He can draw his dagger silently, and slit Master’s throat and no-one will know.

 

But he almost died today, and Master’s relieved eyes and laugh haunt him still. He lays his face on Master’s chest and drifts off into a hazy sleep, the taste of wine still on his tongue.

 

Fingers snap right in front of his face, and Fenris jerks back into awareness, blinking until Anders’s face sharpens. Anders’s eyes are wide and frightened, his jaws set tight, and an angry frown creases his brow. He huffs out a frustrated breath, snatches something from the nightstand and hurls it at the wall, where it shatters into pieces. Fenris shivers from the sound and scoots back ever so slightly. Of course, Anders notices. His frown deepens.

 

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, pulling one shoulder up in a shrug. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I swear I’m normally a very calm person.”

 

“Uh-hu,” Lee calls from wherever he went off to. “Sure Andy, you never tear up your notebooks or set them on fire. Or set the clinic on fire when you have one of your tantrums. Or, I don’t know, literally tell Hawke ‘I am not always a gentle man.’”

 

“Fuck. You.” Anders grinds out. Fenris raises his eyebrows.

 

Lee laughs. “Yeah, whenever you want, babe.”

 

Anders closes his eyes, his cheeks flushing red. His lips twist into a grimace. Fenris studies him, doing his best to ignore the hollowness in his chest. What’s Anders doing with this Templar? Sure, his clinic got sanctioned when Meredith disappeared (there was even talk of moving it to Hightown and changing the name to The Meredith Stannard Foundation of Healing, but for whatever reason Anders’s pet spirit refused to do any of that) but since when does he allow Templars around? Since when does he let a Templar call him ‘babe’?

 

Fenris quickly looks away before Anders can open his eyes and catch him staring.

 

Anders clears his throat and gestures to the back of the clinic. “You can go first if you want.”

 

“To fuck the Templar?” Fenris asks dryly. Anders blanches, lips parting, eyes widening in mortification.

 

“Flames, no,” he says. “I meant the bath. It’s probably ready by now.”

 

Fenris doesn’t move. Anders fiddles with his robes.

 

“Ah,” Anders says at last. “Do you need help? With walking? With bathing?”

 

Fenris’s mouth goes dry. He tries to swallow. It’s impossible. Maker’s breath, what would it be like to be surrounded by steaming water, while Ander’s hands wash the dirt and blood off his body? A buzz fills his ears, and every inch of him tingles with unease, and he draws in a quick breath, shakes his head and ducks into the bathroom as fast as his injuries allow him.

 

His hands tremble when he removes the bandages around his abdomen. The skin shines an angry red, almost as if the internal wounds are about to inflame. He prods the skin and winces at the deep ache it produces. The water is steaming warm he lowers himself into the bathtub as slowly as he can without cramping any muscles. By the time the water is up to his chin, and he finds himself blowing out bubbles of all things, his abdomen has stopped aching.

 

The second he relaxes, the buzzing returns and he’s back in Danarius’s mansion, with Danarius’s gentle hands on him, submerged in pleasantly warm water in Danarius’s bathhouse.

 

He almost drowns himself when he holds himself underwater to force the flashback to an early end. He’d rather ask Anders to pull him over his knees and spank him than finding out where this flashback ends. Great. Now he has an erection. With a groan, he leans his head against the tub and pinches one of his lyrium scars. Now is not the time for irrational, inappropriate lust. Let alone at the thought of being hurt by another person. Damn it; he’s no longer a slave. He doesn’t have to deceive himself anymore. Doesn’t have to pretend it brings him pleasure instead of pain.

 

He washes, being careful on the bruised flesh, and lays in the water until it goes cold. There’s a white cloth on the sink, and when he flips it back, he laughs. It’s one of those ridiculous wooden things the Orlesian’s use to clean their teeth. They call it brushes because of the thick boar hairs they use. Oh well. He might as well soak up Anders’s hospitality while it lasts.


	25. Fearling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for graphic depictions of 'war' violence. Explosions, torn limbs, burned flesh, etc.

**Poll results:**

**[Mahariel and Blight Veterans](https://i.imgur.com/mWrjf0f.png) **

**[Mahariel and dragons](https://i.imgur.com/ICxy07f.png) **

**[Mahariel and Zevran](https://i.imgur.com/Pm0LkSe.png) **

**[Mahariel's position](https://i.imgur.com/0oFivQT.png) **

* * *

 

 

**The Fade**

 

A word of advice: Don’t step through the portal. Just don’t, okay? You never know what’s on the other side. Could be the gates of Hell, could be burning oil, could be His Noodleness the Flying Spaghetti Monster, could be zombies.

 

Or it could be an Archdemon, accompanied by an army of Darkspawn.

 

Which is why I’ve shoved Orsino behind me first thing when I saw what laid ahead. The portal opened up on a hill, giving me the perfect overview of sprawling black land, burned and crispy and black. On your right? Corpses and Darkspawn. On your left? Corpses and Darkspawn. Straight ahead? More corpses and Darkspawn.

 

“I’m retiring,” I mutter under my breath. Orsino takes a deep breath and shuffles his feet. His bare feet. I frown at them.

 

“Try not to step on sharp objects,” I advise him. Orsino grimaces at me with puppy-dog eyes of despair. With a sigh, I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose, tense my shoulders and let them fall again. Okay. An army of Darkspawn and one whopping evil flying lizard. Nothing a mage and a Seeker can’t handle.

 

Nope, the Hero of Ferelden and Alistair weren’t accompanied by two companions and an army. Where’s the trebuchet glitch when you need it? Speaking of trebuchets: we’re not in Denerim. We’re not even in Kirkwall. I’m pretty sure we’re not even on the continent. Hey look, a dead cow.

 

Blinking, I stare at the smoldering carcass of a dead cow. Wait, is that a double negative? Does this make the cow alive, theoretically? Dead Cow Carcass + Dead cow = -Dead Cow = living cow?

 

WTF?

 

“What the fuck, Meissie?” Compassion!Dad says when he materializes next to me. His gray hoodie and blue jeans isn't the best outfit for fighting an army of corrupted hellspawn, but the growling dog at his side is one hell of a weapon.

“Dad, meet Darkspawn,” I say, encompassing the battlefield with a sweep of my left hand. “Darkspawn, meet Dad.”

 

Dad gives me a sallow side-eyed glance and ignores me. Spike growls and crouches. The Darkspawn don’t seem interested in a meet-and-greet, either.

 

Orsino clears his throat behind us, and I almost jump out of my skin. Dad and I turn around, as does Spike. Spike bares his slobbery muzzle at Orsino and growls. I roll my eyes and nudge him out of the way with my boot. The dog, not the elf. Damn it; now I want to see if I can shove Orsino out of the way with my boot. Knowing him, he’d probably go with the motion and end up pushed against a wall.

 

With a BOOM! A gray concrete wall crashes on the ground on our left side. Dad clutches at his chest, Spike turns into a bristling ball of erect fur, Orsino sends a bolt of lightning into the wall, and I almost become airborne what with the way I jump backward.

 

“Eh. Sorry, guys,” I mutter, crossing my arms in front of my chest and clutching my elbows. Maybe I can build a bunker, and we can all hide inside it. Until we’re starving and eat the dog. No, wait, innocent animals go before friends and family. We’ll eat Compassion!Dad first since he’ll magically come back to life in a while. Huh, would he respawn on the spot? All you can eat Compassion buffet? I bet he’d go well with Heinz smoked BBQ sauce.

 

As if the Taint infested lands aren’t smoking enough already, a firepit drops out of the sky and neatly arrange itself in front of the wall. Dad shuffles out of the way sheepishly, and the fireplace lits itself on fire. I groan. All we need now are tents and skewers, and we’ll be on an impromptu camping trip.

 

Warily, I squint up at the sky, tensing my calves so I’ll be ready to jump out of the way for falling tents. Or skewers. Getting skewered by my imagination would be a terrible way to go. Humiliating, too.  

 

Wait, is there a reason why we don’t turn around go back through the portal? We can try another one, and another, and another, until we find one without Darkspawn.

 

I whirl around. “Guys, why don’t we just- Of course, a one-way portal. Ugh.” My foot goes right through the small floating ball of white light. Before it spanned the entire doorway, now it’s just the size of a mouse. Grand. Where’s the Skip The Fade mod when you need it?

 

Compassion forms a ball of light between his outstretched fingers, which elongates into a staff of light. He hands it to me with little preamble. Is it possible for weight to be in negative numbers? Because I’m pretty sure a solid object isn’t supposed to lift my arm like it just pissed on Newton’s rules for gravity.

 

Newton figured out gravity, right? He was the guy who spent days underneath an apple tree until an apple fell on his head? (No, wait, the guy with the apple on his head was Robin Hood. Or was it Peter Pan? Mgh. Nevermind. There was an apple; it fell on the ground, gravity was discovered. A woman picked it up, took a bite and oops, you’ve damned humanity: nice move, Eve. Next time try to stick with celery sticks, please.)

 

Sadly, the Tree of Wisdom and Immortality does not materialize for us to raid. Even that tree from Norse mythology would be lovely. Just go back every 300 years for a new apple, and you’re good to go. Solas would like this for his People. Huh, give the trees to the elves, and I’d be a god.

 

Uh, I already am. There goes that plan.

 

“What is that?” Orsino asks while I make a few practice swings with the staff. Compassion made it, so it’s probably made out of sugar and spice and all things sweet.

 

“It’s a quarterstaff. I’ve been practicing with it since it’s lighter than my sword.”  I shrug. He regards the staff with his head tilted to the side and smiles. I swear it’s a fond smile, the one you’d reserve for puppies and kittens. Oh God nope I didn’t just imagine a pack of puppies and kittens, no sir, please don’t materialize out of thin air, please.

 

They don’t, and I sigh in relief. We’re way off from the Darkspawn army, and they haven’t seen us yet, so it’s time to talk strategy. I lean on my staff, something I can do because it’s not a sword that should be handled with care, and tilt my head on my hands.

“Okay, so, it’s three of us against a thousand of them. More, probably. That’s less than the Battle of Ostagar, and we all know how that ended.”

 

Dad opens his mouth. As he’s the Fade version of my Dad, who’d look at strategies from every possible angle a year before a battle took place, it’s probably to defend Loghain. I like Loghain, and I’d give the fellow a hug and a stack of maps if I got the chance, but this isn’t the time and place for a debate on whether the guy is a hero, an anti-hero, or a villain.

 

“But!” I say before Dad can start his monologue. “If we killed the Archdemon, the Darkspawn flee. I don’t know if this-” I sweep my arm over the army. “Means Archie over there is going to wake up soon. We might even buy the world some more time if we kill him. Her. It.”

 

Dad leans back and looks up at the Archdemon in the sky, his chin resting on the back of his hand. Orsino clutches his staff, knuckles whitening from the pressure, with wide eyes. He goes through his hair with one hand and presses his lips together. Oh boy, he’s even turning a bit green.

 

“And how do you suppose we get up there?” Dad asks curiously.

 

I press my lips together and shrug with my palms held upwards, lips pressed together and twisted into a grimace. “In Denerim, they grounded the Archdemon by slicing through the wing membranes.”

 

Dad nods, tapping his bottom lip with his index finger. “They had Fort Drakon. We have nothing that provides elevation.”  

 

Grimace still in place; I close my eyes for a second and breath out through my nose. “Yeah… I’ll get up there. You guys stay here and try not to draw attention to yourselves.”

 

Orsino’s lips part in shock. He takes a step forward and reaches for me. “I won’t let you fight that alone!” he shouts.

 

I shrug and scoff. “Sorry, but you don’t get a choice. I’m immune to the Taint; you two aren’t.”

 

Plus the entire army might end up massing around me and follow me to the end of the world. If the Archdemons falls, that is. Go for the neck, hope it doesn’t explode my soul into a thousand little bits, and continue with the damn Harrowing I insisted on so much. Yeah, I’m smashing those arches holding the portal leading to this place, just in case.

 

I wave at them. “You two get to know each other, while you’re stuck here. Oh and Dad, no embarrassing stories from home. _Please._ Let me keep my last shreds of dignity.” I widen my eyes at him for a second. Please get it, Compassion, no stories about telephones and movies and how I ended up in front of the McDonalds counter at eighteen and panicked because the cashier asked me a question I wasn’t expecting.

 

One huzzah for awkward autism-related moments, Y'all.

 

I whirl around, just slow enough to catch Orsino stepping forward and Dad holding him back with an arm. Dad salutes at me with his lips pressed together into a thin line and bunches up his eyebrows. I cover a laugh with a cough. The one time my Dad served in the military was mandatory service when he turned eighteen. He made friends with the military physician and charmed the man into coming up with one illness after the other so he could skip most of the training. Once, he refused to partake in an obstacle course in front of his entire unit. His sergeant kept piling up push-ups, stacked on push-ups, sprinkled with push-ups, but Dad stood his ground and refused. Eventually, the physician declared him noise-deaf, meaning he wasn’t able to discern voices in a ruckus. I don’t know if he was sent home or just did other stuff after that. The noise-deafness turned out to be ADHD years and years later when he was forty-eight and got a burn-out.

 

It’d been an amusing story in my childhood. It had amazed me Dad had evaded something so swiftly, that he followed his way even under such authority. Those were the good old days, the innocent days before I’d heard about corruption in police officers and other jurisdictions.

 

“Meredith! Maker’s breath, you’re a spirit of Compassion, you can’t let her get herself killed! Meredith! Blast and damnation!” Orsino shouts behind me, but I push through and struggle against the icy wind and the soot drifting down from the black sky. Thick clouds pack together above my head and the Archdemon roars, soaring overhead. I stop at the edge of the hill. The Darkspawn army sprawls beneath me, covering the ground like crawling ants. I close my eyes and wince at the howling wind in my ears. Clenching my hands into fists, I slide my feet away from each other for secure footing.

 

Breathe, girl, breathe. In, out. In, out. Forget about Orsino. Forget about Dad, and Compassion and everything in the past. Be zen. Be your breath. Be the wind, the fire, the shadows, and the mist. The only way you can find out whether you’ll fly or fall is to step off the edge and leap. Jump or let yourself fall; it shouldn’t make much difference. My foot hovers over emptiness. It’s barely an abyss gaping beneath me; it’s barely more than a one-story drop. I exhale and force my abdominal muscles to relax. My stomach becomes a churning pit and goosebumps rise on every inch of exposed skin. Hair tousles and slaps against my face, sticking to my lips. My heart has gained a life of its own, frantically beating against my chest. I don’t want to die. I won’t die. I'm in the Fade.

 

Which doesn’t mean my soul won’t come out unharmed. What if I break when I wake up? What if I can’t form words to speak, thoughts to think, emotions to feel? What if I lose myself?

 

What if I can buy the world a few more years by killing the Archdemon?

 

I lean forward, arms outstretched, fingers spread, and fall. Way before the momentum can carry me anywhere, my fingers disintegrate into mist and shadow, and I’m weightless, I’m cutting through the gray skies with sharp wings made of darkness. The Archdemon glides through the air, raining fire down on the scorched ground. Weightless, I bank to the left. My arms are my wings, but they’re not where arms are supposed to be. My form is convoluted into a sphere of mist, embers licking at the edges of my vision. It takes me seconds to catch up to the Archdemon.

 

I crest into the creature’s neck and tear into it’s the unprotected underside with claws I didn’t have before. They glitter with sparks and embers, and I twist and wrench through the fabric of the Fade, through the Veil, tearing into the Void with all my will and strength. The Archdemon roars, curling its head over its ridiculously long neck, reaching for me. One huge cloudy eye glares at me with hatred before its jaw snaps shut with me between its teeth.

 

Pure, searing agony. Shrieking in pain, I wrench myself forward and tear into the beast again, aiming at the side of its neck this time. A timeless expanse of nothing opens up breathtakingly slowly where my claws scrape over scales with a metallic screech. I have seconds before the Archdemons drags me away from its vulnerable neck and tears me in half. I force the shadows and mist to shape into my draconic jaws, no more than a beak with rows and rows of wickedly sharp teeth and clamp them around the wretched creature’s neck with a savage howl. Blood pools on my tongue, sharp and acidic, burning and bitter. I seek for purchase with the claw thumbs on my wings and wrench my head to the side, tearing through burning flesh. The Archdemon bucks and convulses in the air, flapping its wings in mad throes, keening, and writhing. I worry my head from left to the right and roar when flesh and bones and tendons give way beneath my teeth. My perch and leverage fall away, and I cut through the sky, losing my grip on the Archdemon’s neck, cresting through the air like a dying star.

 

Dark claws reach for me. Moans and whispers lap at my form, a song of terror and fear underneath the whispers of the damned in a melody of sorrow. I touch the ground in the middle of the army, and my world is shadows.

 

**The Fade**

 

Darkspawn no longer surround me. When I hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, they become spheres of shuddering darkness and reshape themselves into Templars and Seekers. Karras’s voice is loudest of all, followed by Lord Seeker Lambert’s. I tune them out and wiggle my fingers and toes. My spine is in one piece; my ribs are not. Nothing punctured my lungs this time. I try to push myself up and shriek, my wrist giving out uselessly beneath me. Spitting out a mouthful of dirt and sand, I try my other wrist and hiss out a breath. Sharp pain shoots through my entire arm, starting at my shoulder. Wrenched out of its socket. Awesome.

 

“I annul the Circle of Magi!” Karras roars with glee. I groan and pull my legs underneath the rest of my body. Thank you karate class for teaching me how to get up without using my arms and hands. Coughing out dirt and Archdemon blood that’s not Archdemon blood, I stumble to my feet. A fireball whistles through the air, exploding on the ground and knocking me off my socks, followed by a heatwave causing blisters on my exposed skin. A couple of ribs have cracked on impact. Son of a bitch. I grit my teeth and curl myself into a ball, covering my ears. A loud wail rings in my ears and makes everything a blurry mess. Compared to this, tinnitus is a fruit fly buzzing in my ears.  

 

A golden shield springs into existence around me, starting as a sparkling line on the ground and erupting upwards into a dome of speckled light. All at once, the faint sound of battle is cut off and energy floods into me. My bones creak and snap; shattered fragments click back into place, I roll on my back and scream out my lungs when my ribs shift and slide back into place underneath my skin.

 

I’m never wearing a crop top again. It’s like an alien moves underneath my skin. It’s just bones, but I stare in horror when ripples pass beneath the surface.

 

Dad jumps over the dome with grim determination on his face, his lips twisted into a snarl. He reaches out with his hands and twist and wrenches them to the side, and an expanse of earth bucks and explodes a few paces away from him. Templars and Seekers scream in horror before the earth swallows them whole.

 

He can’t be fighting. He’s a spirit of Compassion. Fighting means corruption. He whirls around, and his eyes dart over me, cold and unfazed. What’s the other side of the medallion? Is the opposite of Compassion, Rage? Hatred? Indifference? I squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe in, 1. Breathe out, 2. And so forth.

 

This isn’t Inception. This isn’t Divergent. There are no layers of worlds here, no dices to throw, no reality to determine. The world isn’t divided into sectors of traits; this is not a simulation in which all I have to do is calm my rapidly beating heart. I can’t wake up before someone wakes me up, either from the outside or from the inside.

 

Orsino stands in the middle of the battlefield like a god, lightning at his fingertips. It shoots through the ranks of Templars and Seekers and paralyzes them. He follows it up with fire and more lightning. One of the Templars stumbles in front of him, and Orsino grabs him, pressing his hand against the man’s neck. The Templar screams, his mouth and eyes opened widely, his fingers twitching in pain. A dark red brand of his hand stands out sharply against the Templar’s pale skin when Orsino lets go. With a wicked smirk, Orsino shoves the Templar toward a convergence. Pushed forward by an unseen force, the Templar shouts and trips in the midst of at least fifty enemies. The warning he tries shout gets cut off by an inferno of searing flames. Blood and guts rain in every direction. The Templar’s companions crawl away, missing limbs and in some cases, half their faces. They’re a bloody mess.

 

Other Templars and Seekers kick them away when they reach for their fellows in despair. One of the wounded Templars reaches out with a pale white bone, all that’s left of his left underarm, and gets bashed away with a Templar shield. He sobs before he explodes, taking out the Templars and Seekers in his vicinity.

 

I pull my knees up to my chest, drop my head on my knees and cover my ears with my hands. Rocking back and forth, I draw in ragged, shuddering breaths. War has nothing to do with honor or duty. This is nothing but a massacre. Who gives a damn they’re nothing but Fearlings and Nightmare demons? I hum to myself; eyes squeezed shut. At every explosion, my voice becomes louder, until I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, still rocking in place, shaking my head again and again and again.

 

Someone get me out of here. Someone get me out of here. Someone get me out of here.

 

A Templar is thrown against my dome and claws at it, his nails bouncing off harmlessly. He’s sobbing, his face scrunched up and bloodied. His bloody entrails hang around his neck, his abdomen a mess of blood and exposed red muscle. With my mouth opened wide, I scream until my voice gives out. I cry until another Templars explodes behind the one punching my dome, and keep screaming when a shard of metal embeds itself into his chest, pinning his heart to the shimmering walls of my prison. The Templar drops to the ground, limbs flopping lifelessly, eyes and mouth opened wide in terror, and the heart sits skewered on my dome and bleeds like a waterfall.

 

**Day 40 (25th of Cloudreach) 12:32 PM**

 

“We are never sending anyone, mage or Templar, back into the Fade, do you hear me?!”

Orsino is shouting at the top of his lungs, his voice sharp with anger. My ears are ringing, and I don’t catch Thrask’s concerned reply, only Orsino’s voice going up a notch and becoming louder. I groan, flip on my stomach and cover my head with my hands, scratching at my scalp, tearing out hair as I go.

 

New Harrowing: Failure.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they killed and/or thoroughly weakened the Nightmare demon without realizing it. Merethilda will realize this later. When she's done PTSD'ing herself to pieces. 
> 
> I should give her a break. A happy dream with Compassion!Dad, or a day playing Wicked Grace with Isabela and Merrill, or a day studying dragon stuff with Orsino. Or, ya know, drinking herself into a coma so she can skip this week. If you have any suggestions for fun things for her to do, please mention them in a comment!


	26. Pantry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW-skippers: When you reach “Day 40 (25th of Cloudreach) 01:10 PM” CTRL + F “Little fun fact” to skip NSFW content between two homosexual characters. They’re not any of the main ships nor any of the main characters.

**Poll results:**

[ **Fenris flashbacks** ](https://i.imgur.com/RErCV9t.png)

[ **Fenris's non-canon spec... or not** ](https://i.imgur.com/5ULE0f9.png)

**[Fenders Benders first time](https://i.imgur.com/16lGJuA.png) **

[ **Blood mage influence** ](https://i.imgur.com/Ymr03xY.png)

[ **Harrowing recovery** ](https://i.imgur.com/MtO6xJz.png)

[ **Orsino's feelings** ](https://i.imgur.com/Aghcdtl.png)

[ **Merethilda's reaction** ](https://i.imgur.com/u593vwg.png)

 

* * *

  
**Day 40 (25th of Cloudreach) 12:40 PM**

Orsino shouts at Thrask, Thrask shouts back at Orsino, Cullen shouts at both of them to calm down and ‘use their words’ (sucks to be you, Cullen. They’re obviously not shouting in Klingon) while Alistair shouts at all of them to ‘shut up and look at the burning lyrium, for the love of the Maker!’

 

Not that they hear it. Or look at the bowl of flambéd lyrium.  Alistair’s brown eyes are wide, his lips parted and showing gleaming teeth. His hair is disheveled. There are bags underneath his eyes, his face drawn. I give a half-hearted shrug and shake my head. While the Templars and Orsino shout obscenities to each other, I inch closer toward the bowl of blue flames and nudge it toward the edge. It teeters for a few seconds, undecided about gravity’s existence (not far-fetched, because of Force Magic), before slipping off and shattering on the floor. Sizzling, boiling lyrium splatters on the walls, the floor, even the ceiling.

 

“Waargh!” Thrask goes down like a sack of potatoes, smoke rising from the bubbling lyrium on his neck. He hits the floor with a dull thud.

 

“Fuck.” Cullen makes a sliding any soccer player worth their ridiculous salary would envy, and crouches beside Thrask. The scent of charcoal wafts through the chamber. Coughing, Cullen waves a pillar of blue smoke away and turns halfway, gagging and clutching his stomach.

 

“Uh oh,” Alistair mutters, staring wide-eyed at his sleeve. Blue liquid dribbles down, following the curves of the silver links. He raises his head and meets my eyes. I open my mouth, close it, and open it again. Shit. Shit shit shit.

 

“Alistair? Are you all right?” Cullen asks with a raspy voice. He has a hand pressed to the unburnt side of Thrask’s neck, his mouth moving as he counts in his head. Orsino sits opposite him, hands inches away from the wound, white energy curling around his fingers and spiraling over Thrask’s skin.

 

 

Alistair lets out a nervous laugh and grimaces, shaking his arm. The lyrium keeps meandering through the links on his arms. Doubt taking it off is going to help.

 

“Maaaaybe?” Alistair drawls with raised eyebrows and a high-pitched voice. Cullen’s checking himself for lyrium, but his head snaps up. He frowns, pressing his lips together. Marching up to Alistair with quick strides, he swerves past the broken bowl and the pool of lyrium on the ground and grabs Alistair’s arm, squinting at the chainmail.

 

“No, don’t- Argh, I’ll be fine, Cullen, I swear,” Alistair says, rolling his eyes. “I love the Fade, and the Fade loves me,” he quips, with comically widened eyes and wiggling eyebrows. Sweat rolls down from his hairline to his chin, one drop rolling down his nose.

 

Cullen mutters something unintelligible under his breath, his shoulders taut and his knuckles white.

 

“Follow him, Rutherford.” What else can he do, anyway? Leave Thrask and Alistair stumbling through the Fade on their own? Sure, the big evil dragon won’t be terrorizing the Fade anytime soon, but last time Alistair was in the Fade, he was having dinner with Goldanna the evil gremlin. Dude needs a Cullen to haul him out.

 

Cullen nods -

 

“Damn it, Cullen, I can handle myself just fi-”

 

\- and presses his hand against the be-lyriumed chainmail.

 

Alistair tries to catch him and fails, getting whacked on the cheek by Cullen’s limp lyrium-smeared hand instead. Son of a nug. I jump for both of them and help absolutely no-one when I shoulderdeck us all to the floor in an undignified heap. Cullen’s teeth click together, and I’m pretty sure he falls on Alistair’s arm (please don’t be broken please don’t be broken please don’t be broken) and Alistair’s head bangs against the floor with a loud thud.

 

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck.” I scramble to my feet, slip through lyrium and catch myself, my nose inches away from the Maker-damned stuff. This shit is going on my opium list, that’s for sure. Okay. Stay calm. I’ll be just fine and dandy if I press up with my left arm and let myself fall on my back. Gritting my teeth, that’s what I do, knocking the breath out of my lungs when I land on my back on clean tiles.

 

The ceiling is high and arched, decorated with dusty murals and stained glass artworks. Soot and spiderwebs temper vibrant colors. My lungs fill with air with greed that’d make the Pope faint in horror.

 

Sorry, Francis. I need air to divide and multiply. Not that I want children. Yeah okay, maybe if I miraculously achieve world-domination and control everything and everyone with magic. To get rid of all the variables, you know. How else will I make sure my hypothetical child won’t drop dead under my care? I can barely keep myself in one piece in this fucking world, for fuck’s sake. On second thought, this might not be the best thing to mention to the Pope. Even if it’s fake-Francis-in-my-head.

 

Fake-Francis-in-my-head sounds catchy.

 

Where the fuck is Stannard when you need her to coach you through the technicalities of lyrium-induced sleep?

 

Luckily for me, I have her other half at my disposal. Eh. I mean, the other half of the medallion. Sigh, this isn’t getting any better. And Orsino isn't. At my disposal, I mean. Well, I bet he’d be if I asked nicely enough and gave him the puppy-dog-eyes. I am the goodest girl, after all. Damn it; I should’ve reincarnated as a Mabari Hound. Not one of the wild ones. Fleas, shudder. Plus. The Kirkwall gang would kill me, and I’d let out one of those pitiful little whines before fading into the ether.

 

If you ever see a bunch of people frantically running away from a measly, half-starved feral mabari hound, that’d be my friends and me. Running away because I don’t want to kill it. Unless they ignore my command to hold and dart away, chasing rams and fennec foxes all over creation. Disgusted noise.

 

Collateral damage, y’know. I’m already damaged goods, no need to add more damage to that. Or collateral. Whatever the hell that means. Probably derived from some vague Latin word with too many syllables. Collateralius ominous damagus or something. Damn, now I’ll never find out what that other triple Latin name was, and what animal it belonged to.

 

Ever wondered what a mountain gorilla is in Latin? ‘Gorilla beringei beringi.’ It means Gorilla Gorilla Gorilla. I’ll bet my right arm a scientist saw a tribe and shrieked “Gorilla! Gorilla! Gorilla!” while jumping up and down. Science approves of your enthusiasm, Robert. Now take a chill pill and stop deafening the gorillas.

 

Cullen’s alive and his teeth are in one piece. Alistair’s arm is less fortunate, and I don’t think I should’ve wrenched the bone back in place the way I did.  You can hardly blame me for not thinking clearly after getting bit in half by an angry flying lizard, bombed and almost skewered by a piece of metal with complimentary bleeding heart already skewered in place. I grimace. Sorry buddy, you’re going to be sore for a while.

 

Holding my breath, I shove my hands underneath Alistair’s head. Just a bump. Thank fuck. Miles better than soft skin and bone fragments and a gallon of blood and brain fluid and I should probably stop gasping for air like a fish on dry land and blinking like a Sudanese monkey during a pseudoseizure and act more like an average person.

 

Hands drop on my shoulders. My neck muscles lock. Dark spots dance before my eyes. Damn trapeziums.

 

“Sorry,” Orsino mutters above me. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.’

 

I shrug and wave of his concern. “Is Thrask all right?”

 

Orsino nods and I blow out a breath in relief. “Thank the Maker. Is there anything we can do to wake them up?”

 

“I’m afraid not. We’ll have to wait for them to wake up on their own.” With a sigh, he brushes a hand through his dark gray hair.

 

How does it even work, Orsino? Is lyrium sapient? Does it somehow get a signal the mage or Templar hasn’t fallen to a demon and stop working? Does it stop working on its own after a few hours? Why does one Harrowing last five minutes while the next can take two hours? Is it a Titan who watches everything and if so, how do they connect to the Fade? Why does raw lyrium kill a mage? Why do our brands overload their mana supply and cause it to flow into the Brand seeking release? Why can Seekers set fire to lyrium? How is what I can do differently from what a blood mage does to a human? What’s missing from a Templar once they drink lyrium, and what the fuck makes a Seeker not lack it, and what do spirits of Faith have anything to do with it? Do they possess the Titans? Are they the Titans? The Titans were the first Gods, weren’t they?

 

The profane said they ate the Gods. I’ve never finished Descent after I used the battle with the Sha-Brytol Eartshakers to demonstrate Dragon Age to a friend, quit to spend time with her, and went back to it later. I decided to record the fight because even with the ridiculous amount of mods I had (unlimited Fade-Stepping does come in handy in the Hissing Wastes) it took half an hour and I wanted the material to compare to other players. Instead of turning off the recording, I hit F6 and went back to my last save. Ugh. During my third time, I wanted to try some of Sera’s abilities. How the fuck do I know she’d just flailed herself off a cliff into a crevice? She respawned and glitched. Watching a one-second flash of caverns and enemies and Sera’s form while being terrorized by “ **_SCCHHHGGG_ ** ” blaring out of my speaker sucked dishwater. Threw in the towel, spent a second pretending to be the fuck-you middle finger emoji and launched Trespasser.

 

Orsino glances down at Cullen and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t wish a Harrowing on anyone out of spite, but part of me is strangely pleased.”

 

Uh, hell to the no. No-one but me torments my Cullen and Alistair.

 

Fuck Thrask, he’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.

 

Pushing myself to my feet, I clasp Orsino on the shoulder and move toward the double doors. “Can you stay here and watch them while I get Elsa and Niana to stand guard? Meet me in the library after they make it here?”

 

The corners of his lips pull up into a small smile. “Dragon talk?”

 

I nod. “Dragon talk. Plus Antivan Brandy. Or wine, or whatever else you might prefer. Make sure you have nothing else to do today just in case.”

 

Make sure you don’t need any sleep tonight, either. I close my eyes. Splattering blood, a dead heart, a severed arm, a twitching hand belonging to a man in his death throes. Gurgling, the terrified scream of a man infected with a Viral Walking Bomb just before he explodes into a fountain of blood and pieces of guts.

 

I clench my hands into fists, so I don’t tear off my eyelids.

 

**Day 40 (25th of Cloudreach) 12:50 PM**

After reminding Elsa none of my Templars are in need of torture while they are helplessly asleep and admitting that yes, painting on their faces would be pretty damn funny, Elsa and Niana take their leave. Using my best zombie-shamble, I shuffle to my chair and sink into it. My teeth chatter and I pull a blanket off the back of the chair and bundle myself up as best I can. I should get going. Orsino will be worried if I’m not there when he arrives. I don’t want another search party frantically turning Kirkwall upside down looking for my corpse.

 

Corpses. Blood. Ash. Fire. Embers. Roar. Wings, dark purple against a dark gray sky. Teeth. Pain.

 

I clutch at my ears and sob while my hands shake and my feet shake, and the chair shakes, and there could be an earthquake, and I wouldn’t even know the difference.

 

Okay. Okay. I can cry for one minute, and then I’ll… I’ll write letters. To Loghain. To Mahariel. To whoever is the Grand Cleric in Ferelden. Shit, I should’ve asked Elsa. Damn. Well, whatever. I’ll write my letter and Elsa will have to copy it and fill in the blanks. Right.

 

 

 

 

> To the Grand Cleric of Ferelden
> 
>  
> 
> Elsa, please insert the old hag’s name here. I have no idea who holds the position right now.
> 
>  
> 
> Blah blah blah appropriate courtesies expected when one addresses a Grand Cleric.
> 
>  
> 
> Insert polite request for information on the Cousland family tree and bloodline, tracing all the way back to King Calenhad. Maybe an optional request to pass this information to the Weaver’s Guild with the request for a tapestry of the bloodline/family tree to save time. The entire family, including Fergus’s sister, wife, and child.
> 
>  
> 
> The assurance I’ll cover every expense including potential tips. Oh and a donation to her Chantry, too. Screw it, make those donations to every Chantry in Ferelden. Maybe I can buy the entire organization by donating them into oblivion.
> 
>  
> 
> Appropriate closing courtesies, flattery, whatever floats your boat. That’s a saying, by the way. Please don’t buy a boat.
> 
>  
> 
> Don’t put this in the letter. Thank you, Elsa, you’re a sweetheart. I don’t know what I’d do without you and Niana.

 

It’s ridiculously simple to write up, and I have no regrets about letting Elsa do all the work. It’s not like she’d bat an eye at it, anyway. Okay, next.

 

 

 

 

> To the Warden-Commander of the Grey in Ferelden
> 
>  
> 
> Warden-Commander. You don’t know me, I don’t know you.
> 
>  
> 
> First, you have my undying gratitude for not dying when you vanquished Urthemiel.
> 
>  
> 
> Second, you have my gratitude for Kieran’s existence. Third,

 

I nibble on my bottom lip until it bleeds. Come one, Grethilda. It’s just ink on a piece of paper. If I change my mind, I can toss it in the brazier or the fireplace and no-one will ever know it existed.now. I’ll know I’m a coward who withheld vital information.

 

 

 

 

> She has received the same treatment.
> 
>  
> 
> Speak to Varric at the Hanged Man. He’ll put you in contact with me.
> 
>  
> 
> I wish you luck, Warden-Commander.
> 
>  
> 
> Knight-Commander Meredith of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi
> 
>  

With shaking hands, I tap the two letters into a stack and move on to the third roll of blank vellum.

 

 

 

 

> To Loghain Mac Tir of the Order of the Grey
> 
>  
> 
> Blast and damnation, I don’t know how to address you.  I doubt you’ll appreciate flattery or words of encouragement. I probably shouldn’t do this, but here goes:
> 
>  
> 
> Maric. Antivan prison. Eliminate Aurelian Titus. Maeveris Tilani will get you close enough.
> 
>  
> 
> I promise, you, he lives.
> 
>  
> 
> And I always keep my _promises_. Tell him that.
> 
>  
> 
> Good luck.
> 
>  
> 
> A friend
> 
>  
> 
> Niana, rewrite this, so he doesn’t recognize my handwriting on Mahariel’s letter.

 

And here comes the fun part. Dorian, oh Dorian, I hope you’ll be as excited as Alexius and hop right on the next ship to Kirkwall.

 

 

 

 

> To Magister Gereon Alexius of the Tevinter Imperium and his apprentice Dorian Pavus
> 
>  
> 
> We’ve met, in a way. You don’t remember me.
> 
>  
> 
> Not yet.
> 
>  
> 
> Take Felix with you. I might be able to buy him thirty more years. It’s a gamble. Trust me, the path you’ll take if we don’t meet is far worse than anything you could imagine. I’ve seen the sky ripped open and streaked with green Fade fire. I’ve seen demons pour out of the sky like rain, only far more deadly.
> 
>  
> 
> Tell Dorian not to go home. Tell Hafter he’s a homophobic asshole. Pass on my greetings to Meaveris Tilani. Thanks.
> 
>  
> 
> A former future friend,
> 
>  
> 
> Meredith.  
> 
>  

My hands shake some more when I add it to the pile and put them on Elsa’s desk. I snatch them off the desk almost immediately, holding the top corners between my thumbs and index fingers, ready to shred them to ribbons. No. Shaking my head, I drop them and get up. Time to raid the Circle’s liquor supply for a library party.

 

**Day 40 (25th of Cloudreach) 01:10 PM**

 

The first and last storage room for everything food-related I pull open reveals two men squished together in a cabinet. Maker knows who the guy getting head is, as he has his broad-shouldered back to me (with plenty of muscles to sport. Oh, and Dat Ass. He’s Dat Ass from now on even if his name is Bart. Hehehe.) He has his hands fisted into his lover’s curly hair, winding it around his fingers. One curl twists around an elven ear. Mage.

 

“This better be consensual from both sides,” I say. “Pass me the Antivan red whenever you’re up for it, so I can smash it on your head if it isn’t.”

 

Dat Ass’s neck muscles bunch up like a coiled spring. Looking over his shoulder, he blinks at me in surprise, his lips parted. He clears his throat and closes his mouth. What’s he going to say? ‘Hey, uh, sorry. I promise no-one ejaculates into the Rivaini Swampsoup.’?

 

Dat Ass’s lips open widely (great, now I need eye bleach for my brain), a shuddering groan squeezing out of his throat. Rolled back to the back of his head, his eyes reveal a shock of white, half-opened eyelids fluttering. The fingers he has intertwined in his lover’s dark curls twitch — a muscle on his left shoulderblade spasms.

 

“ _Oh. Fuck_.”  It’s a sensual, guttural rumble of pleasure and I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be watching a random stranger orgasm and be captivated. Loverboy pulls back and releases the cock with a wet pop, smirking and licking his lips. Welp, I guess that answers the consent question. Dat Ass pants and leans his arm against the wall and rests his head on the arm, sweat rolling down his flushed face. His other arm hangs limply at his side. He closes his eyes and groans. I pat him on the shoulder sympathetically.

 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. You two are cute together,” I say. Dat Ass mutters something unintelligible into his elbow. Loverboy gets up, shuffles past us, snatches his clothes from the floor and covers his penis with it. With cheeks flushed strawberry red, he lunges for the door. He probably doesn’t realize he should be shielding his cute small rear from us now instead of his, uh, lil’ weeping willow.

 

With a soft laugh, Dat Ass stretches his arms over his head with a grunt, shaggy ash blond hair nettling in the back of his neck.

 

“Yeah, well,” he says, joints popping audibly. “It’s nice to not have to hide anymore, that’s for sure.”

 

At my skeptical side-eyed glance into the cramped, dark wine pantry, he shrugs and stands on his tiptoes to reach for the top shelf. Out comes a bottle of deep crimson sparkling wine. He screws off the leather cap and pulls the cork out with his teeth. He wiggles his eyebrows, his moss green eyes filled with mirth.

 

“Ah, that. Have been picking out wine to take back to bed for the last…” he cocks his head to the side and purses his lips. “Twenty minutes?”

 

My eyes keep darting down to his half-erect cock, accentuated by blond curling pubic hair.

 

Little fun fact: I watched gay porn now and then. There’s something incredibly erotic and sensual about two men being intimate.

 

Live gay porn is best gay porn? And no over-eager pop-ups of busty women demanding to cam with me. No, ‘Arianne Bronde,’ I don’t want to hear you moan into my ear like a chihuahua in heat.

 

I briefly considered using one phone to call a sex line and another phone to call another line, putting them on speaker and leaving them next to each other and, I don’t know, making a panini or something while they moaned each other into a fake screechasm within five minutes.

 

Dat Ass leans forward, and I take a step back. His nostrils flare, and he blinks slowly at me, his lips curling into a cheeky smile.

 

“If you ever want some double trouble, you know where to find us,” he says, cheeks dimpling. His thumb brushes over mine when he presses the wine bottle into my hand.

 

“Uh, I have to be in the library to do Orsino and meet with books,” I say.

 

Something about that sentence wasn’t right.

 

Dat Ass smirks, snapping his fingers. “I knew it! Raleigh’s going to spend a lot of time in the latrines tomorrow,” he says in a sing-song voice.

 

I raise my eyebrows and cross my arms over my chest. “Getting out from under your duty?” I ask. He grins and folds his arms over his chest, leaning against a shelf.

 

“Not at all, Meredith. I’m quite devoted. Speaking of devotion, this could be all yours if you want it.” With raised eyebrows, he rotates his wrist and points down. Damn my eyes for following. Holy guacamole. If Loverboy’s a weeping willow, Dat Ass is the whomping willow.

 

Ghehe, Whomping Willow.

 

God, I’m such a child.

 

“Duty calls, I should go see if he made it back safe. Gotta claim the wall side of the bed so he doesn’t shove me out in the middle of the night, too.”

 

They sleep together. Often enough to have fuck-your-space-go-faceplant-on-the-floor squabbles.

 

And no-one has tattled on them or complained or I’d know.

 

**_HALLELUJAH, PROGRESS._ **

 

“Tell my assistants where Y'all are set up, and I’ll order you a double bed. Is he Dalish? Dalish like Halla. It should have halla carvings.”

 

He smirks. “Can we get a carving with horns so we can-”

 

Wide-eyed, I wave my hands around like a spastic hummingbird. “Gah. Multi-purpose horns for all yer faux foursomes, got it. Discuss the other details with Elsa. Or Niana. Or Zevran Arainai, y’know the ass-”

 

A rough, throaty laugh tenses his abdominal muscles. “Yeah, I know who Zev is. Great guy. Raids the cellars for Antivan Brandy. Never pays. Unless a living sum counts.”

 

I snort. “He can bathe in liquor if he wants. Provided by the Chantry. Without their knowledge, so… shh.” I tap my index finger against my closed lips.

 

Dat Ass laughs. “For a second I thought you were going to say the Chantry would provide women.” He shakes his head.

 

“Maybe. If you give Leliana flowers and ask her nicely,” I say with a shrug. His eyes sparkle and I roll mine, adjust my grip on the wine bottle and step out of the pantry, slamming the door in his face and suppress a giggle until I’m out of the storage room. Damn it. I manage to smooth my expression into a poker face for one second, make the mistake of glancing down at the wine bottle, and almost choke on another giggle.

 

**Day 40 (25th of Cloudreach) 01:20 PM**

“Sorry I’m late. Opened a pantry and almost walked into a double wall of sweat, abs, and ass. Oh, and if you hear rumors about us doing the nasty, that might be my fault. Also, who the fuck is Raleigh?”

 

* * *

**Polls:**

**["Lovers before friends. Friends and friends of friends before strangers. No matter the cost. No matter the casualties."?](https://linkto.run/p/4O2X324C) (Revised hardening mechanism poll - each question will get its separate poll and they'll be spread over as many chapters.**

[ **Next ThirdPOV** ](https://linkto.run/p/TNQTIJ5H)

[ **The next main quest to start** ](https://linkto.run/p/0WWAF5K7)

**[Templar Harrowing](https://linkto.run/p/P71TQX7W) **

[ **Honnleath-In-The-Fade and Wilhelm's Cellar** ](https://linkto.run/p/7Y7YXURS)

[ **Abomination speech layout** ](https://linkto.run/p/UIK65IJE)

[ **All Origins Are True?** ](https://linkto.run/p/252NCNY4)

**[Who said Tranquil can't have love?](https://linkto.run/p/E8JY83BV) **

**[When we reach the end...](https://linkto.run/p/4O2XIE4C) **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From: https://www.healthline.com/health/pseudoseizures
> 
> Nonepileptic seizures are also commonly referred to as pseudoseizures. “Pseudo” is a Latin word meaning false, however, pseudoseizures are as real as epileptic seizures. They're also sometimes called psychogenic nonepileptic seizures (PNES). Pseudoseizures are fairly common.
> 
> People who experience pseudoseizures have many of the same symptoms of epileptic seizures: convulsions or jerking motions, falling, stiffening of the body, loss of attention and staring.


	27. DTR I

**DTR Part one**

* * *

 

**Define The Relationship (DTR):**

**When two people discuss their mutual understanding of a romantic relationship.**

 

* * *

 

I apologized to an empty library. Damn.

 

At least it forgives me, I guess.

 

Pastel glowstones dimly light the library, most of them placed on the ceiling or the bookshelves, some of them on the shelf ceilings to illuminate the books within. Soothing blues and dark blues, whites, golds, and reds. Mold and dust swivel through the stuffy air, tickling my nose. My nose wrinkles and my lips twist from holding in a sneeze. My eyes slide over the nearest bookshelves, which have been placed diagonally on the tiled floor, the tiles themselves being as broad as my legs would be if I spread them wide. In the center of the bookshelves sits a large table surrounded by chairs and illuminated by a large glowstone grafted in the high ceiling.

 

“Seriously?” I roll my eyes at the obligatory Chantry sunburst it’s been shaped into. Orzammar must’ve cursed every single Kirkwaller for ordering this abominable thing with the many little details.

 

The chairs are empty. No Orsino. Maybe he’s picking out his liquor, or he went to his office and lost himself in paperwork. He might be sleeping, slumped over his desk with vellum stuck to his cheek. He might be drinking himself into a stupor on his own, somewhere in a dark corner in a pantry, desperate to drown out the echoes of fearlings in his head. Maker knows I’m about to do the same, but not alone. If need be, I’ll drag Isabela out of the Hanged Man all the way to the Gallows for an impromptu cocktail party. Screw the cocktails; I’ll go for the rum and screw Bela. That’ll help me forget.

 

My bottom lip stings when I pinch it between my teeth. Shaking my head, I shuffle toward the shelves and pick my path carefully, pressing my arms against my sides so I won’t knock anything over. The pathway between the shelves is narrow at best, not to mention the books I nudge out of the way with the tip of my boot. Either someone left them on the floor, they’re out of space, or no-one gives a damn about the order. Bending from my waist, I grab a thin, faded leather book and open it somewhere in the middle. Thank God for pictures, because it’s written in some shitty Kirkwall dialogue with a lot of double and even triple vowels. Some parts look like they’ve been written in a cipher, which is ironic, considering the elven language is a cipher.

 

Wait… have I ever had any trouble understanding anyone’s speech here? Frowning, I narrow my eyes, rubbing a faded picture of a triangle surrounded by circles. No, no I haven’t. Everything sounds English to me except for the patriotic American dwarves. And the Welsh elves. And Merrill. I have yet to meet someone from Nevarra. Honestly, it’ll be funny as fuck to greet them in my best ‘coalmine German’ (a.k.a. a one on one translation that’ll make any German turn around in their graves) and gleefully take in the look on their faces.

 

Zevran has his pseudotalian accent, too. Be still my beating heart. The only Italian I know is ciao, Buongiorno and, ah… morbida. Nope, it doesn’s translate to morbid or death. Unless I ordered morbid bread at the Italian camping I vacationed at with Dad and my stepmother. Heh.

 

Pf. I had to pay for everything because their debit cards refused to work. Something about the internet connection or whatever. Hallelujah for my bank, which had convinced me to take a credit card despite better judgment. The look on their faces when I said ‘Oh, no problem, I’ll take care of it,’ at the camping desk and whipped out my shiny Mastercard was priceless. They paid me back as soon as they could.

 

I guess no one's going to update my scheduled payment to Mastercard. Dad’s probably cursing me while he calls every company to tell them that I’m dead and finding out they don’t believe a relative even if it is the father of the deceased. They want proof.

 

I say stuff my ashes into a box, drop a copy of my passport on ‘em and slap a label with ‘warning, radioactive and fragile’ on it. And multiple contradicting ‘this side up’ and ‘this side down’ and ‘fuck this, whatever’ arrows for shits and giggles.

 

The book receives a hearty slap when I shove it back to its place. I meander through the shelves, discerning no pattern or order whatsoever in this chaos. Speaking of confusion, one deeply colored burgundy leathered book that I grab appears to be about blood magic.

 

Seriously, I’m not kidding.

 

Rubbing my thumb over the inlaid glowing rubies, I open the book on the first page. Multiple overlapping and intertwining sentences greet me in a cacophony of an absurd disorder. Some letters are turned upside down or face the wrong direction; others look like someone handed a quill to a dyslectic spastic monkey with ADHD.

 

With a shrug, I set my teeth into my nail and rip it off. Blood wells up, and I squeeze the top of my nail until a red drop of blood drips on the page. It just lays there. Crap. Now I fucked up big-time. Adjusting my grip on both covers, I’m about to slam it shut when the droplet of red sinks into the page and disappears. Whispers rise around my ears, and a gust of wind toys with my hair while the letters drift over the page and rearrange themselves into Common.

 

Blinking, I gape down on it.

 

Holy flying fuck. Did I use blood magic? Non-mage blood magic? WTF?

 

I close the book and shove it back on the shelf.

 

“Fuck, no, don’t leave it in plain sight, you idiot,” I whisper to myself, grabbing the book and clutching it against my chest. Everyone in the Circle can read, and everyone can understand Common. Anyone could pick it up and decide to wreak havoc, without having to summon a demon or make any pacts to learn blood magic.

 

…

 

Grimacing, I stick the book in between two others and tiptoe away, as if it’ll grow claws and teeth and follow me with flaming and frothing pages. Brrr.

 

“Looking for something?” Orsino asks from behind me. With a little shriek, I veer to the left to turn around, smacking face-first into the shelf instead. Ugh. Lomp is lastig, a.k.a. Dutch for ‘clumsiness is annoying as fuck.’ Thank fuck the shelves are made from heavy wood and iron and don’t topple over in a grand domino show of Meredith-fucked-up-again. Grimacing, I step back and clasp my hands behind my back.

 

“Nope. Unless you count as an object?”

 

Gah, someone smack some sense into me, bitch please.

 

Orsino chuckles, dusting off his new black robes. His grey hair is disheveled even though he tried to comb it back and there are dark bags under his eyes, but other than that his smooth elven skin makes him young. His green eyes crinkle around the edges when he smiles at me indulgently.

 

“Not as far as I’m aware, no. But perhaps you could order more of me if I were? Maker knows I’d appreciate the time to take a nap now and then.” He leans back on his heels, arms folded over his chest and his ankles crossed. His teeth glint in soft blue light.

 

Chuckling, I shrug. “I’ll see what the Grand Enchanter can do for me, but I make no promises.”

 

At my words, Orsino tilts his head to the side and licks his lips. “You’ve been in contact with the Grand Enchanter?”

 

Frowning, I shake my head. Shit. Who the fuck is the Grand Enchanter now? When did Fiona get the position? When did the Wardens kick her out because Bioware decided they needed to toss us another bone about Alistair’s mother’s identity?

 

“Not yet. Perhaps I should, so show some goodwill.” I shrug. “But enough about that, please.”

 

I hold up my bottle of Antivan red for him to see. The blue glowstone makes it look purple. Blegh. “I forgot to bring cups, so we’ll have to drink like barbarian alcoholics, but we’ll be fine.”

 

Smiling wickedly, Orsino pulls out a big, brown earthen bottle and salutes me with it. I raise my eyebrows.

 

“Dwarven ale, from Orzammer,” he says.

 

… God have mercy. On my liver. And kidneys. And on the brain cells I’m going to snuff out drinking that stuff.

 

I chuckle. “I’m pretty sure that counts as an assassination attempt.”

 

His grin widens, and he pulls up his eyebrows. “I'd like to see you convince the Grand Cleric without antagonizing any dwarves, surface or otherwise.”

 

Shudder. “Forget I said anything about murder.”

 

Meh. Okay, fine, I'm drinking myself into oblivion. That's what I'm here for, anyway.

 

I clank my wine against his ale and snort. “To oblivion, then.”

 

* * *

 

 

If you want to know how Orsino and I ended up huddled in an alcove with the remains of two broken bottles sicky from alcohol scattered around us, books looking like they avalanched off the nearest shelves and our sides pressed together snugly, don’t look at me for answers. If you do find answers, please let me know, so I can make a rough guesstimate of what Orsino and I have been doing for the past (bleary squint at the nearest glowstone, until I realize it’s a glowstone and not the sun) three hours. Pretty please with a cherry on top?

 

Snickering to myself, I lean my head on Orsino’s shoulder. The crown of my head rests comfortably against his temple. Elven ears are weird. I keep expecting to feel a rounded edge. Or for them to be smaller. They’re also crazily warm. Or maybe it’s because Orsino is blushing. Again. I let out a giggle and stick out my tongue. Not that he can see it. His eyes are closed and his eyelids flutter a little. Leliana’s in-game comment about wanting to pluck off the Warden’s eyelashes and keep them in a jar because they looked like butterflies makes a lot more sense all of the sudden.

 

… Not that I’m going to wrestle Orsino down and tweeze his eyelashes off. Besides, if I stuck them in a jar, they would just be a bunch of dead lashes. Wait, hair is dead, anyway. Then how does it grow? Does our scalp recede an inch a day? Huh, shouldn’t we all have teeny tine heads after a year? 365 inches ain’t nothing, after all. I’d hate to shrink 365 inches. Fuck, I’d be in negative as far as length goes if I did. I’d cease existing.

 

Woah, how did thinking about blushing get me to a shrink-induced existential crisis?

 

Shrink-induced. Heh. Hehehehe. Ha. I’m funny. My scalp might recede until I’m -365 inches tall, but my wit will live on! Insert heroic pose here. Which no-one will see, because I don’t exist, right? Right? Chuckling to myself, I press my hands to the floor and heft myself up to shift my legs into a position that won’t cut off blood circulation. Huh. Would a blood mage be able to control my arm if I tied a tourniquet around it until it went blue?

 

“No, but neither would you,” Orsino mutters sleepily from my side, his voice scratchy. I lift my head off his shoulder and glance at him, eyebrows raised. He blinks owlishly, eyes almost rolling to the back of his head in exhaustion.

 

“Did I say that out loud?” I ask.

 

His lips twitch into the barest smile. “As much as I’d like to know what’s going on in that head of yours, reading minds is well beyond my abilities.”

 

I roll my eyes and lean my head against the shelf at my back, wrapping my arms around my pulled-up legs. “You want to know what I’m thinking?”

 

He hums in assent.

 

“Blood magic and tourniquets,” I drawl, straight-faced. 

 

Orsino groans and I snicker, then shrug.

  


“Yeah well, I’m not about to give my arm. Or any other limb, for that matter. I’ll just…” I frown. What the fuck can you do against a blood mage besides ‘smite first ask questions later’? Does smiting even stop them from casting a blood-fueled spell? Damn it all to hell, why can’t I just ask him that!?

  


Because it’ll give me away. Or drive _him_ away.

  


Or worse. Harvester-level worse.

  


Goosebumps rise on my arms and I rub them, gritting my teeth and setting my jaw. Orsino peers at me with raised eyebrows, a crease between his eyes.

  


“Are you cold?” he asks.  


 

“No, I look like a plucked chicken because it’s warm and cozy here,” I grumble, rolling my eyes. He chuckles, unties his robes and drapes his arm, plus robes over my shoulder. Damn, it’s like he’s burning up. Guess he’s not an Inferno mage for nothing. Heh, at least the necromancy doesn’t make him look like a re-heated corpse. Yikes, wrinkled pasty gray skin, hollow eyes, hollow cheeks, his mouth gaping open lifelessly because all the muscles have gone slack. Receding skin, maggots and oh god why do I taste the alcohol in the back of my throat when there’s no alcohol left to drink from?

 

 

I stifle a gag, clutch at my throat and worm myself out from underneath his robes, fighting the rough scratch of air passing through my throat into my lungs. If it even reaches my lungs at all. Doesn’t feel like it, anyway. I grind my teeth together with enough force to make them creak like a door with rusty hinges. I press my tongue against the back of my teeth and rub it back and forth across my front teeth to… distract myself, I guess.

  


“I- Ah. I didn’t mean to- Are you- You don’t look so-”

 

 

With my eyes squeezed shut, hugging myself and pressing my nails into my elbows, I shake my head vehemently and fight to swallow against bile.

  


“Shut up. Just- Shut- Up,” I say in what’s almost a growl.


	28. DTR II

~~~~

I declare today’s update as Recommendation Friday. Poll results are in bold hyperlinks, recs are hyperlinked. 

 

[ **Badass Rutherford** ](https://i.imgur.com/ue1aA49.png)

 

The holy trinity that is  [ a MGIT, a Cullenmance, and dragons ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845277) . In 2014, eighteen months after a car accident and a serious concussion, this AO3 writer picks up her pen in hopes of regaining her writing ability. What starts as a simple writing exercise blossoms into a work of art and a must-read for anyone who enjoys MGIT. Which you do, or you wouldn’t be here. Small warning, its incomplete and has been for a while now.

 

[ Victory At Ostagar (Badass conqueress Cousland) ](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5825274/1/Victory-at-Ostagar) , by Arsinoe de Blassenville. She passed away from cancer in 2016, but her works live on. Victory at Ostagar started with what’s exactly on the tin. And then it grew into ‘So, we have an army to fight the Blight here. What’doya say we take a detour through Orlais and  _ take it _ while we’re on our way?’

 

[ The Keening Blade (Badass Warden Loghain) ](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5875082/1/The-Keening-Blade) , because see above. This and Victory at Ostagar made me fall in love with Loghain as the flawed, anti-heroic character that he is. Small side-note, Arsinoe hiatus’d this one so she could finish Victory At Ostagar, and she did  finish VAO, but she passed away before she could get back to The Keening Blade. The hiatus was planned, so the story leaves off at a place without any loose ends. 

 

Who doesn’t want to see a female Cousland loot every corpse under the sun and take everyone’s stuff to boot?  

**\---**

[ **The Poll That Mattered Not** ](https://i.imgur.com/dEkVoLs.png)

 

Once upon a time, an AO3 author named Kimpossible gave us  [ Difficult Choices ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14923598?view_full_work=true) to make. Two months later The Anderfel Champion and  [ The Painted Mirror ](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13094271/11/The-Painted-Mirror) happened. For the people who salivate at the thought of moar polls, The Painted Mirror is a MGIT CYOA fanfic with an M rating due to past abuse and rape. Small note: the pace is a lot quicker than TAC and Difficult Choices. 

 

Difficult Choices is the adorable tale of Noelle, who finds herself smack-dab in the middle of the Inquisition without having played Inquisition.

\---

[ **All Roads Lead to** **Denerim** **Kirkwall** ](https://i.imgur.com/snEaaVR.png)

 

[ All Roads Lead to Denerim ](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8819552/1/All-Roads-Lead-to-Denerim) was the first All Origins Are True DA fanfic I read. Its sequel,  [ An Apostate’s Abominable Guide to Kirkwall  ](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10052179/1/An-Apostate-s-Abominable-Guide-to-Kirkwall) was put on hiatus in Sept. 2016. Sparrow Nightrunner, if you’re still out there, the ~20 readers popping up in your 2019 statistics are a gift from a fellow Dragon Age fanfiction writer.

\---

[ **Elsa's autassassinophilia** ](https://i.imgur.com/rhDu8ed.png)

Elsa having this fetish wasn’t something I planned for. Fetishes are interesting if you look deeper into the psychology behind them, like with this one. In essence, it overlaps with Asphyxiaphilia and drowning fetish (which oddly doesn’t have a term of its own). 

 

I still remember the day I Googled the word ‘fetish’ and ended up with  **‘A fetish is an obsessive and/or dangerous fixation on an object and/or practice, sometimes resulting in injury or even death of the practitioner(s).’**

 

Yeah, give it a second to sink in before you run ‘fetish’ through Google and weep in relief at its 2019 hits.

 

I have no recommendation for any works which include this fetish, save for TAC. (Just ran the phrase ‘dragon age autassassinophilia’ through Google, and nope, no fanfics.)  [ Go read the Elsa chapter again ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15702150/chapters/38520653) ? 

 

\---

 

[ **Sorry friends, must save the suicidal redshirt** ](https://i.imgur.com/hjEiHzd.png)

 

This one, just because it’s [Ridiculously Awesome](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6113911/1/Ridiculously-Awesome). Or: what happens when Duncan recruits a psychopathic Amell. Duncan, honey, next time keep walking when you see Kinloch Hold on the horizon. Preferably to the Brecillian forest or Highever. 

\---

[ **Abomination Chat Speak** ](https://i.imgur.com/xrBKZiQ.png)

[ Sympathy for Maferath ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/284939) is a beautiful one-shot showing us the what if scenario of Anders merging with a spirit of Faith instead of a spirit of Justice.

Are you the person that’s smirking whenever a kink is mentioned?  [ Three words ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15720870) will be perfect, and let me just leave the summary here: “ Hawke and Anders have a new way to improve his control over Justice/Vengeance and train the spirit to accept Anders’ will. He lets the spirit partially take over, sharing control, while Hawke is bound, no staff at hand. He can do anything to her, and she lets him know how to proceed with a word:

_ Vengeance _ , harder.

_ Justice _ , perfect.

_ Mercy _ , too much—and Anders must assert full control. If he doesn’t, she’ll  _ use  _ the wounds he gives her.”

\---

[ **Two post-order Vints have left the distribution center, no track &trace provided** ](https://i.imgur.com/QFhkOFQ.png)

[ The art of Manumission ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10947924) . 

Manumission, or affranchisement, is the act of an owner freeing his or her slaves. In this AU, Anders lands in Tevinter before anyone can say Grey Wardens or Lyrium Bomb. He finds out Tevinter isn’t as friendly to Western mages as he’d thought...

[ Mud and sand ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/243068) lifts Tevinter above the evil blood magic theocracy Bioware turned it into. Anders is a magister, Hawke is a slave. The rating is M, but not because it’s packed to the brim with sex (still M for a reason.) Seriously. It pulls off some crazy worldbuilding for a one-shot. Also, Anders calls Hawke ‘Fluffy.’

\---

[ **Oh noes a paradox whatever shall I do flail flail** ](https://i.imgur.com/yLrTTvR.png)

[ Amaranthine ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/291745/chapters/466763) is the Hawke-in-Amaranthine AU that happens when Hawke miney-moes his way on the right path only to see it fall apart beneath his feet. Bonus points: Carver and Bethany are alive. Anders/Hawke, rating Mature. 

 

**Heads-up:** Orsino is going to brush something off in this chapter. His poll will hopefully give him a good reason for doing this. 

* * *

  
  


**Day 40 (25th of Cloudreach) 04:13 PM**

  
  


“Just give me a minute,” I say in what’s almost a growl. My nails scrape over my scalp and I twist strands of hair around my fingers until they’re tightly coiled. Fuck. I don’t want to lose it. Not now, not here and not with him. Damn it. I choke back a sob and blink rapidly hoping to dry my eyes before the first tears fall. My bottom lip trembles and I pull at it with my teeth. The pain does nothing to ease the rising panic. 

  
  


This city rests on my shoulders. Less than a handful of people know who I really am and they don’t understand. Not really. And I’ll never understand what it’s like to be a Circle Mage, to go through  _ Karras _ for all the years in my life. I’ll never understand what it’s like to know nothing but slavery for my entire life, to be born in servitude and think nothing of it because it’s the way things are. 

  
  


Why do some people break? Why do some people become stronger? And do they really, or is it all a facade or a shield? 

  
  


‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ is nothing but a lie we tell ourselves to feel better about other people’s misery. They’re getting stronger, aren’t they? So we don’t have to help them, we can let other people do that. And if a few mages and elves can’t take it anymore and put their hands to themselves, we shake our heads, mutter about how it’s such a shame, and move on with our lives in our shiny armors and diplomatic crap and meaningless speeches of peace and change.

  
  


Why exactly did I want to stop Anders from blowing up the Chantry, again? 

  
  


Fuck. Think about Leliana. She adores Elthina, and so does Sebastian. Elthina was a mother to Sebastian when his own mother shipped him off because he threatened the rule of his eldest brother. 

  
  


A warm hand rubs soothing circles on my back and I move closer, backing into a slim form, still doubled over. Orsino’s saying something, so softly mumbled I can’t tell one syllable apart from the other, but there’s a soothing rhythm to it nonetheless. Tingles dance over my arms the way waterphone music used to creep underneath my skin and turn me inside out. Ringing is the only sound in my ears, the drop of blood my teeth wrung out of my bottom lip the only taste on my tongue. While the trembling of my body slowly recedes and my heart beats in tandem to the heart within the chest beneath my ear, I frown and lick away the spot of blood. 

  
  


Blood magic. Orsino is using blood magic on me. Maker’s flying fuck. I thought Seekers were immune to blood magic. But they do bleed, just like everyone else. 

 

If he can calm me down, why the fuck doesn’t he just bite the bullet and force his will on me? On who he believes to be Meredith Stannard? He’s the First Enchanter and his mages, his charges, are being terrorized by Templars. He owes it to them to take control and tip the scales. 

  
  


Except for the fact that, the second my hands light up with blue fire and I scour his influence out of my blood and force it to cascade off my skin like vile black oil, the ringing recedes and my mind becomes clear. I force myself to take deep breaths and blink the last tears out of my eyes. Orsino keeps rubbing my back with one hand, his other arm having draped around me and pulled me against his chest. When did he do that? After several more cleansing breaths, I straighten and Orsino’s hand and arm slide off me. We both step back and stare at each other in silence. Where his skin isn’t flushed from a blush, his skin is ashen and tight. His eyes are dark and foreboding. His hands are held up in surrender. Or maybe he’s showing me he’s unarmed. 

  
  


But he isn’t, is he? He could rip me to pieces. He could turn my blood into ice. He could make it boil. He could simply just create one blood clot and send it up into my brain like he’d flick away a mosquito on his arm. Maker, is he even aware of this? The endless possibilities to manipulate my own blood to turn against me? All it takes is one squeeze of my heart that’s too tight, one glimpse in which my blood flow is reversed and I’d be dead at his feet. 

  
  


I should be afraid. But I’m me, and I always believed bad things happened to other people, not to me. 

  
  


Until an asshole sent a bullet into my skull and kicked my ribs into smithereens. Until I decided to uphold a promise and… and what? What happened when I climbed up that ladder, with Leon tossed over my shoulder like a Templar-sized sack of potatoes? Was Karras waiting for me in the shadows? Had he suspected since he’d inquired about the escaped mages? Why did he grab what he believed to be an abomination and kept it alive, sodomized it even? What made him aroused enough to fuck what he thought to be a demon from the Fade? 

  
  


Rape is seldom about desire. It’s about control. It’s about humiliating someone to their breaking point until they stop fighting because there’s no way out. Maybe he was jealous. Maybe he just wanted to own me. To flaunt his superiority over me. 

  
  


Orsino’s eyes are wide, his pupils leaving only a slim ring of black around his irises. He’s a deer in the headlights, caught between the impulse to fight me and the impulse to flee. Fleeing will get him nothing and even if I’m barely more than flesh and bone, my Templar powers give me an advantage. Not to mention the fact he saw the blue flames. They spark between my fingertips, a touch of ice on my skin. 

  
  


“When- How- What- Where-” Orsino rambles out in quick succession. Crossing my arms over my chest, I tilt my head to the side and tap my chin. 

  
  


“If your next question is who I was from, I'm going to laugh.”

  
  


“Who… who you are from?” he repeats, blinking, his brow creased in a frown. 

  
  


With a chuckle, I shake my head. “Never mind. I'd be on the ceiling if you got that reference. How about you try another one.”

  
  


A small muscle in his jaw pulls when he shifts his weight to the balls of his feet. 

  
  


“Are you here to Annul the Circle?” 

 

Ugh. Of course he must. The corners of my lips tug down into a grimace and I shake my head and take a step forward. 

  
  


“If I ever answer that with anything other than an enthusiastic ‘Hell no!’’ I want you to whack my ass into next Tuesday,” I say, 

 

His lips part. Dry as they are from the stifling heat billowing around him, they stick together for a second. He shakes his head, bunching up the fabric of his robe with hands more resembling claws than fingers. 

  
  


“You’re here for the coven,” he says with flaring nostrils and narrowed eyes. Embers spark on his fingertips, singeing his robes. He doesn’t notice. 

  
  


“Oh for fuck’s sake!” The air in my lungs explodes out in a woosh. Blue flames zing and cackle between my fingers when I throw my hands up, pulling a muscle in my right shoulder blade. I wince and gnash my teeth together. 

  
  


“I don’t give a flying fuck about your damned coven, or your Liberalists, Aquarians or Isolationists. I’m here-” 

  
  


I smack my balled fist into my hand, making him flinch. 

  
  


“For the mages. Including  _ you _ and your  _ coven _ -” 

  
  


Stannard stands between us, her burning eyes narrowed, her lips twisted into a snarl. Her blonde locks stick to her lips and she wipes them away with a greaved hand. I glare at her. Sparks fly when she draws the ethereal Certainty, raising her chin and looking down at me in disgust. 

  
  


“They’re blood mages!” she says, her voice a bellowing roar. Air screams when it’s sucked out of the room, the ruby red glowstones in the far corner buzz and flare when cracks spiderweb over their surface. 

  
  


Smack! I bare my teeth into a grimace and take a step forward, pivoting at the last second to dodge Stannard’s unyielding form. Knowing you should be able to walk through something that looks solid isn’t the same thing as convincing your brain it won’t run into a brick wall. Stannard’s shoes are made of worn, mud-caked leather. Lines are gauged into the surface, each striped through with a decisive, short dash. 

  
  


“For the elves, because fuck this society treating them like cockroaches-” 

  
  


I lift my eyes slowly. Stannard meets them with stony resolve.

  
  


“It’s nothing they haven’t brought upon themselves,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

  
  


Step. Smack!

  
  


“I’m here for the elves, who lost their society-” 

  
  


I can’t even blink before she’s in my face, her lips pulled back into a feral snarl, her crazed eyes wide and bloodshot, a muscle pulling underneath her right eye. Her hands grip my shoulders and her fingers press against my bones. She shakes her head vehemently and points at Orsino as if he’s mud under her shoe. I think she’s pointing at him, at least. I’m not breaking eye-contact with crazy unless I want to get my head torn off.  

  
  


“ _ They _ are the ones who lost their society,” she says, her voice echoing through the alcove. (That’s what I said?) Spittle flies through the air and I grimace. My calves burn and my knees scream from being locked. It’s the only way to keep myself from backing away. I ain’t backing away from what’s essentially me plus a major factory reset. Downgrade. Negative karma. Ish. 

  
  


With squared shoulders and glaring eyes, I open my mouth- Wait. I bite on my tongue to stifle the laughter wanting to escape. Orsino’s right fucking there, I can’t answer someone only I’m seeing! 

  
  


FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOU!

  
  


Stannard’s eyes find Orsino, move back to me, and crinkle at the edges. Her lips twist into a self-satisfied smirk. Gah, let me rip them off her, please. It’s not murder if your victim slash body was bloody annoying, right? Bonus, humans can live without lips. Especially if they’re dead and incorporeal! Ethereal? It’s not like Stannard needs to eat or anything.

  
  


As if to stress that I  _ am _ corporeal and I  _ do _ need to eat, my stomach rumbles loudly. 

  
  


Stannard glares at me in wry displeasure. 

  
  


Rolling my eyes, I sigh through my nose, put my hand on her shoulder and shove her out of the way with brute force. Cursing loudly, she trips over her a stack of books and falls straight through a shelf, disappearing from view when she drops through the floor like a ghost. 

  
  


I unclench my teeth and work my jaw to soothe an upcoming cramp, and sigh, dropping my arm. My shoulders slump and I glare at Orsino, clearing my throat. 

  
  


“Fuck. I forgot what I was going to say.” 

  
  


Orsino’s eyes are big and round, his pointed ears droop, his mouth opens and closes like a fish on dry land. He coughs. Blinks. Pretends to smooth out wrinkles in his robes. Pretends to dust off his shoulders and knees. Looks at me and cocks his head to the side like a curious puppy, with those puppy eyes and perked elven ears and oh god one more look and I’ll be cooing and telling him he’s a good boy. Ugh. I bet he’s into puppy play. It’s not like you can swing around a dead cat without whacking a fetish in the genitalia. Or, if you’re a flasher, hitting a fetish  _ with _ your genitalia. 

  
  


Ahh… no, it doesn’t involve actual animals, god no thank you very much.

  
  


“Just know it was an epic speech that brought Darkspawn to tears,” I say dryly, rolling my eyes. 

  
  


“All right. Sure. I will. I’m in love with you,” Orsino says. Almost at the same time, his brain catches up with his mouth and his eyes widen and his mouth falls open. Annnnd the blush is back in full force. D’awww.

  
  


“Aw-” 

  
  


Oh god, brain no don’t say that out loud, jeez.

  
  


“Eh,” I say, staring at him. I swear my arms are hanging so far down they brush the ground. “Eh? I’m sorry, what?”

  
  


Yes, thanks brain, for the Worst Response In The Century. I might as well have said ‘I’m sorry, but who are you again?’

  
  


Sigh. 

  
  


“I-” Orsino says. He breaks off and licks his lips, his eyes moving from left to right in search of an escape route. Let’s be helpful and step aside so he can dash right past me. I move to the side until a shelf presses against my back, his eyes following me anxiously. His shoulders slump. 

  
  


Right. Grethilda, when someone tells you he’s in love with you, and you want him to stay, you don’t let your body language scream HEY LOOKY HERE AN ESCAPE ROUTE SUCH A COINCIDENCE LOL YOU GO FIRST SO I’M NOT THE ASSHOLE WHO GETS THE FUCK OUT OF LIBRARY DODGE.

  
  


Heh, Library Dodge. 

  
  


Jeez, Greth, hello focus. Love-struck necromancer elfy elf? 

  
  


Damn, that’d be one creepy advert. ‘Love-struck necromancer elfy elf is looking for other elfy elves for fun times. Bring your partner. The living as well as the deceased. I’m not picky, they’re room temperature and I’m an inferno mage so we can heat them up to kill the maggots, anyway.’ 

  
  


“Hehe-” I smother the ridiculous giggle by pressing my hand over my mouth. Wide-eyed, I stare at Orsino. 

  
  


“Meredith?” Orsino asks softly, peering up at me anxiously, worrying his bottom lip. He’s crossed his arms over his chest, his fingers digging into his biceps. 

  
  


“Uh… you’re in love with me,” I say. 

  
  


Brilliant, captain. 

  
  


He nods, tight-lipped and flustered. 

  
  


My eyebrows raise of their own accord. “... Aaaaand…?” I hedge. 

  
  


Taken aback, Orsino frowns and bites the inside of his cheek. Either that or he’s toppling all his teeth over like dominoes to make his cheek sunken. I hope he’s not doing that. If I see  _ one _ tooth not attached to gums, I’m puking out my guts all over the floor and over his spontaneous declaration of luuurve. 

  
  


“And?” he repeats. His brow creases into a frown. He clasps his hands together, lips pressed into a thin line, head cocked to the side. 

  
  


He clears his throat. “I’m not good at this.” 

  
  


With wide eyes, I jab in my own chest, pulling my best OMG U SERIOUS face. Choke yourself and you’ll get close to what it looks like- no wait, that’s dangerous. Haha, uh, nevermind let’s forget I said anything.  

  
  


“Tell that to the girl who literally said ‘I’m sorry, what?’” I say with a dry chuckle. 

  
  


The corners of his lips twitch upward. His eyes crinkle with a smidge of humor. 

  
  


“I’m not good at this,” he repeats, with a hint of self-mockery. 

  
  


I snort and clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle it. Rolling my eyes, I shake my head and wipe away stray tears clinging to the corners of my eyes. I swear they’re from mirth, not because my stupidity is making me cry. Scout’s honor. Nevermind that I took one look at the assembled scouts around a bunch of maps, heard the words ‘blind drop’ and noped the fuck out like a sensible person with common sense. Must’ve dodged a few salmonella-laced bullets over the years by not joining them, if Dad’s stories are anything to go by. Also, boys who go home with clean underwear in their backpacks, still not in need of washing after a week of summer camp. The underwear, not the boys. You can lay them on the ground and the critters will crowd surf them off. 

  
  


Ew. 

  
  


“Me neither,” I say, while my throat prickles with the urge to laugh. 

  
  


His smile is wry, and I return it in kind and cross my legs, leaning against the shelf to my back. I tip my head back and smile at the ceiling and breathe in. 

  
  


“YoushouldknowthatI’mnotMeredithStannardandI’mnotfromThedasoreventhisworldbutI’mtotallyinifyoustillwanttotrythiswithme,” I say in one exhale. 

  
  


It’s as if the blush is bled out of him, replaced by a ghastly look. I press my lips together and square my shoulders, ignoring the pressure from the shelves against my flesh. 

  
  


Orsino closes his eyes, sighs, and smiles. It’s a hollow smile, strained and faked beyond empathy. I grimace when my heart squeezes in sympathy. It falls from his face as quickly as it appeared, and he opens his eyes and gives me a level look. 

  
  


“You know, elven hearing is astonishing when it comes to run-on sentences,” he says dryly, striding toward me. My eyes follow him until he leans against the shelf, close enough for our shoulders to touch. Heat radiates from him and I squash the urge to all but crawl into him, chasing warmth.  

  
  


I narrow my eyes, glancing at him through my eyelashes. “Really?” I ask. “That’s your response? ‘By the way, elven hearing is-’” 

  
  


While I rattle, he’s placed his hands on my shoulders, spun me toward him, slid his hands down until his palms rest against mine. I break off and stare at him in surprise. Hello, a few minutes ago I was panicking at the thought of being touched. Don’t touch the ball of angst, anyone? 

  
  


He rises five inches by standing on his toes, peering up into my eyes. His left fingers twine through mine. The fingers of his other hand brush past the back of my neck before they find my coupe de disaster and settle there, on the back of my head. I swallow and stare at him. 

  
  


“I’m not her-” 

  
  


“I know,” he whispers, blinking. “You’re so much more than she could ever dream to be.” 

  
  


Oh for fuck’s sake, you can just come out and say you suspected something, y’know? No need to keep me in useless suspense. Also, fuck this sickly sweet sentimentality. Just man up - or elf up? -  and kiss me already. 

  
  


“What’s your real name?” he murmurs, his mouth inches from mine, his eyes burning in mine. 

  
  


Is he going to orgasm spontaneously when I tell him? Because seriously, can someone turn down the dimmer for raw sexual tension a notch or infinite?

  
  


I jump when he laughs and scowl when he keeps laughing, slouching against me. His cheek presses against my chest as he tries to keep himself upright. His shoulders twitch with laughter. 

  
  


Why the fuck is he laughing now-

  
  


“Oh fuck. I said that out loud, didn’t I?” I ask through gritted teeth. Through hearty chuckles, he huffs out something resembling ‘yes, you did.’ Groaning, I smack my forehead and cover my eyes with my arm, Orsino still shaking merrily against my chest. 

  
  


My arm hooks around his waist. His robes are soft, actually, everything about him is soft. 

  
  


He hums. “The answer is ‘No,’ by the way.” 

  
  


I roll my eyes heavenward and groan. “I’m going to hear that one well beyond the grave, aren’t I?” 

  
  


His cheek twitches against my chest. “If you’re suggesting I’d use necromancy to bring you back from the dead to taunt you with...” 

  
  


Pause. “Yes, I would,” he mutters with a chuckle, straightening. 

  
  


His gray hair tickles my chin.  

  
  


I stare at him, mouth hanging open. 

  
  


“You’d really use  _ necromancy _ to-” 

  
  


The finger he presses against my lips is warm and soft and I almost go with my instinct to nip at it. I close my mouth instead, leaving it resting against my lips, on the outside. With clenched jaws, I press my tongue against the back of my upper front teeth and draw in a deep breath through my nose. Orsino’s eyes glimmer and almost reflect the light cast by the glowstones. 

  
  


Damn elven night vision. 

  
  


“I believe this is the part where I do this…” he whispers, sliding his finger off my lips and under my chin. I step closer and lay my hands on his shoulders, giving a squeeze before sliding them down to his shoulder blades. 

  
  


“I believe,” Stannard cuts in dryly, materializing at my side with a snap. “This is the part where your idiocy gets you sucked into the Fade. Again.” 

  
  


Stiffening, my eyes snap to her. My fingers itch to claw off the self-satisfied smirk on her face, to grab her at the neck and throttle her until her face is red and her struggles weaken and- 

  
  


“Oh, yes,” she whispers softly, almost in a moan. “Remember when I said I’d make a list with your darkest desires? This is one of them.  _ Hot-blooded murder _ .” Her voice tapers into malice at the end, her eyes cold and hard. 

  
  


My blood boils. Kill her. Kill her. Kill her. Grab her by the shoulders and pinch her head off. Grab her and tear out her throat with my teeth and laugh when she bleeds out in my arms. My fingers press into Orsino’s back and he shifts his weight to lean back, giving me an encouraging grin. 

  
  


Stannard laughs, throwing back her head. Her lips curl into a leery smile when she meets my eyes. “If I’d known he was into that, I would’ve dragged him into my bed every night.”

  
  


“Hey,” Orsino whispers, his hand brushing my cheek. Softly, he turns my head until our eyes meet. 

  
  


“When I said ‘this is the part’ I didn’t mean we have to do anything, you know.” He shrugs and leans forward, his hair brushing my chin again.  

  
  


“If you just want to sit and talk-” 

  
  


The sound following the explosion of thick purple smoke, way off from our corner, is best described as screeching fireworks, the kind made with saltpeter. Orsino starts, whirls around, surveys the neon bright smoke and pulls me to the ground. The smoke wafts up, curling smokey fingers around books and wooden shelves and thickens around the glowstones, smothering their light. 

  
  


Bomb. Lyrium bomb. No please no it can’t end like this, the library is in the middle of the fucking Gallows, everything will go up in flames, please God-

  
  


‘This is the part where your idiocy gets you thrown into the Fade.’

  
  


“Waaaargh,” I groan, smacking my palm against my forehead. Orsino crouches down next to me, holding my wrist in a death grip, his face grim as he watches the smoke permeate the room. 

  
  


“Maker preserve us,” he mutters, tight-lipped. He narrows his eyes and glances down at me. 

 

  
“I’m afraid this is my fault,” he states.

  
  


I gawk at him. 

  
  


“Huh,” I say eloquently. 

  
  


The corners of his lips twitch upward. He shifts his weight, grimacing, ears drooping to stay out of the twisting, tumbling smoke above us. 

  
  


“I left something here,” he says. “The best place to hide something is in plain sight.” He shrugs as if that explains everything. 

  
  


“So…” I draw out, frowning. “I take it the purple rain means Desire demons?” 

  
  


His breath catches in his throat and he peers down at me, while the luminescent smoke curls around one pointed ear first, before curling around his earlobe and grazing both shoulders. Tremoring, the smoke weaves itself into clawed, scaly fingers. 

  
  


“Yes,” he whispers hoarsely. “Now let me kiss you before a Desire demon steals my kiss.” 

  
  


Purple light flashes in his eyes. Shivering, I scrabble to my knees and brush the smoke off his shoulders, blue flames licking the air around my fingers. With a hearty, deep chuckle, the smoke relents and curls around my wrist instead. It’s as if a warm mouth is pressed to the skin, and I tear my eyes away with effort. Orsino’s eyes lock with mine. Moving forward, I casually rest one hand on the inside of his thigh. His breathing hitches and his hand covers mine, warm and soft. 

I sling my other arm around his neck, leveraging myself up until we’re nose to nose. Inches separate our lips and he closes his eyes, angling his head. Breathless and deliberately open-mouthed, I pull back and angle my head the other way. Orsino chuckles breathlessly, circling the back of my thumb with his thumb. I grip his thigh a little tighter. Damn sensitive erogenic spots. 

  
  


“Orsino,” I purr. Or try to. Whatever, he’d be enraptured if I were shouting it in his ear like a fishwive. 

  
  


“Yes?” It comes out as little more than a shuddering whisper. 

  
  


“Do you want me…” 

  
  


His eyes snap open and I silence his request by brushing my lips over his in a feather-light touch. The smoke ignites a path from my wrist to ankle. I tug. Molasses. It’s like moving through molasses. My heart gallops against my chest and my hands move down over his robes, down his torso. 

  
  


“You didn’t answer me,” I mutter, before I brush my lips against his and nip at his bottom lip, before moving to his earlobe, which I touch with my tongue. 

  
  


“Do you want me to burn the demon to a crisp?” I murmur against his ear. 

  
  


“No,” comes his breathless, almost inaudible reply when I nip at the side of his throat. 

  
  


WTF? Does he honestly think this is a good idea? That it’ll get me over my trauma? Yes, let’s toss some dubious consent at the rape victim and see if it sticks!

  
  


I sink my teeth into his throat, pinching a muscle, for revenge. He stifles a moan.

  
  


“Two,” Stannard taunts, obscured by purple. “Abuse.” 

  
  


Her snicker taunts my ears. “Though it seems you found each other in that department,” she drawls wryly.  

  
  


“Maker’s breath, I meant don’t set fire to the library,” he hisses. 

  
  


Stannard clicks her tongue in disappointment.

  
  


Oh. My bad. 

  
  


“Sorry,” I mutter sheepishly. He chuckles. The sound chases goosebumps over my skin. 

  
  


“Get down and shield yourself,” I murmur with my lips against his ear. “I’m going to smite the demon and I don’t want to hurt you.” 

  
  


The purple smoke presses against me from behind, a column of smoke turning into arms and hands and fingers which ghost around my throat. Tremoring like heat against a cold draft, the smoke solidifies until there  _ are  _ fingers around my throat, tilting my head up, thumbs digging into the veins on both sides of my neck. With my eyes bulging out, I stare at Orsino, who stares back in terror. I point down with my eyes, almost as if I’m trying to  _ tug _ him down telekinetically. Nails probe blood out of my skin when the demon tightens her grip. My shoulders roll and slacken. I slump forward, eyes drooping languidly. 

  
  


“Let her go,” Orsino grinds out through grit teeth, his nostrils flared. “I’m the one who brought you here.”

  
  


“I don’t think so, Lethanavir,” she purrs. “She bled on the pages, not you.” 

  
  


I loll in her grip when she gives me a little shake, mouth hanging open.

  
  


The demon hums. “You and Leon taught us a valuable lesson, little one. A living vessel must be willing; a corpse will fall apart…” 

  
  


She kisses my shoulder. “While the ones who sleep forever are right there for  the taking.”

  
  


Silence rings in my ears. 

  
  


How long can a brain go without oxygen before going vegetable? Five minutes? Can demons override brain damage, heal broken brain cells, retrace withered neural pathways and lay the groundwork for new ones? No wonder Spirit Healers heal the way they do. No wonder they are rare. And what can Anders- 

  
  


Shit. I always do this. Ramble about stuff. When my brain’s fizzling out. Last throes and all, y’know. I close my eyes. Orsino calls out my name from far away.

  
  


“Three,” Stannard says. “Deprivation.” 

  
  


Blue flames erupt from my skin, my eyes, my mouth, my fingertips. Blue fire is all I see, all I am. It engulfs me, fiery tongues wrapping around the demon’s scaled fingers and branding her in a fury equal to an Old God’s. Shrieking, the demon thrashes against the blazing heat. Her screams crest into a shattering crescendo and the world becomes an indigo blaze dusted with purple ashes. The wind fanning my flames sweeps the ashes into my eyes and nose and I cough and sneeze at the same time. 

  
  


An unseen force knocks me out of the flames, like a cat swiping at a toy mouse. Streaks of blue paint my retinas even after my eyes are squeezed shut on reflex. The flames persist until my temple twacks against a shelf and I almost pass out. 

  
  


With a ring of scorched wood around me, I blearily blink up at the blurred form in my vision until it morphs into Orsino. In his hands, he holds a blackened book, gray smoke spiraling upward into the air. I let my head rest back and roll my eyes, puffing out a breath.

  
  


“That’s… hm… I think that’s my sixth dead demon now.” 

  
  


A sharp intake of breath. “Maker,” Orsino mutters, more to himself than to me. 

  
  


Yeah. 

  
  


He straightens, smiling anxiously, eyes anywhere but me. “This one’s not dead, though,” he says with a grimace. 

  
  


Owlishly, I blink at him, taking in the book covered in soot. With a rasping chuckle, Orsino drags his fingers over the cover. Cinders crackle off and pile on the floorboards. Beneath its baked exterior, thick burgundy leather drinks in the light.

  
  


What do we say to the God of Death? 

  
  


Yeah, that’s right. We say for the love of the Maker, what the actual flying fuck, Orsino?! URGH, is every mage in Kirkwall suicidal?! 

  
  
  


“I’d, ah, better put this away in the repository.” He nods sheepishly at the book, giving it a little shake, dusting the air with ashes. His nose wrinkles, his lips pull up and he sneezes without warning. Laughter starts somewhere in my chest and wrings its way through my throat and out my mouth, and I wince when my chest constricts. Ugh, smoke. 

  
  


“You do that,” I say, scrambling to my feet.

 

Profanities. Just profanities. Anything specific will break my brain. 

  
  


“I’ll get the cavalry to clean up this mess.”

  
  


He stares at me, frozen midstep in favor of staring. 

  
  


Ugh. Profanities. 

  
  


Shaking my head,  I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. 

  
  


“I meant a bunch of people with buckets and mops, not an army,” I say, enunciating every word.

  
  


My stomach growls loudly. I roll my eyes. “And food.” 

  
  


Orsino mutters something incoherent and leaves me alone in a library filled with smoke and soot. And damn it, I forgot to ask him why the fuck he hid a Desire Demon in a Circle library. With mages who are cooped up inside with nothing to do but read books. In the damn library. In Kirkwall where the Veil is little more than a wet tissue. Not his brightest move, I guess. 

  
  


“Then again,” Stannard says, grimacing when she lays her hand on a brittle wooden rail on the wall. It evaporates into ash under her touch. “Who’s stupid enough to bleed all over an evil tome?” 

  
  


“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I mutter, looking down at my dusty hands. There is dust beneath my fingernails and dust on my tongue and there’s probably dust in places I don’t want to think about, too. 

  
  


On the bright side, Orsino didn’t try to kill me. 

  
  


Stannard snorts, shaking her head. Her blonde hair settles around her shoulders in loose waves. 

  
  


“Oh, you naive child. If you really believe he’ll take you at face value, you’re delusional. More so than you already are, with your delusions of grandeur.” 

  
  


Hands on her hips, she jerks her chin at me. “Go ahead and ask him. Ask him who he’s thinking about when he closes his eyes, or when he whispers useless sentimentalities in your ear. Mark my words, girl, it won’t be you. Or did you really believe he’ll be daydreaming about someone like you, from now on?” 

  
  


He did brush it off rather quickly, as if to shut me up so he could go on with life, pretending nothing had changed...

  
  


No, I’m not going to answer that. Fuck you, Mo- oh wait, that’s right, Mom can’t hurt my anymore. Not here.

  
  


“Stay the fuck out of my head,” I grind out. 

  
  


Hand over her heart, Stannard widens her eyes. “Oh, I would never dream of invading your privacy, of course not.” Her breathless, innocent voice makes me want to vomit. 

  
  


“Aw, you really suffered as a child, didn’t you?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. Wait, is that  _ sympathy _ ? Startled, I blink and take in her expression. The pout quivers, the corners of her lips slowly drift up in a cruel smirk. My hands tremble. 

  
  


“Yes, I did and no, it’s none of your business,” I say coolly, turning my back on her, my hands twisting into fists at my sides. 

  
  


I ignore the amused chuckle she makes when she pricks her index finger into some unrecognizable black object. It wooshes out of existence in a river of tepid ashes. Her chuckle sounds more like a cackle, raising hairs on the back of my neck. 

  
  


“Chill it, Gargamel,” I snap, grabbing the nearest heavy book and swinging it in her direction. It thuds to the ground five inches in front of my feet. I glare at it. 

  
  


It fails to dramatically self-combust under my angry glare. #FuckYouBook

  
  


She nods as if we reached an understanding. “I believe he likes his lovers on the mature end of things. So I’d refrain from any more tantrums.” Her voice is light, casual as if she’s actually giving me dating advice instead of mocking me. I grind my teeth together and press my nails into my waist instead of using them to rip her eyes out of their sockets like I really want to. 

  
  


In the glare of blue flames, the book’s pages curl in on themselves. 

  
  


“Congratulations,” Stannard says dryly. “You vandalized Circle property.”

  
  


I hate you. So, so much.

  
  


“Sometimes you’re such toddler,” she says, exasperated. “But the feeling is mutual.”

  
  


“Shut up and start stacking books,” I growl under my breath, turning my head away so she won’t see her blow hit home. To her, or to myself, I don’t know, but I lost a battle either way.  Stannard lets out a sigh heavy with disappointment and I pinch the webbing between my thumb and index finger until the sting drains away the heat in my veins. 

  
  


Chuckling to herself, she shakes her head. “So easy. They never loved you, you know.” As she speaks, she steps forward. I lock my knees and tense my calves to remain where I am. 

  
  


“Never understood you, either,” she goes on. I bite my tongue to keep the scream in my lungs, instead of all the way in Seheron where it wants to go.

  
  


“You would’ve never made it on your own,” she says, each word a suckerpunch to my gut. “You knew that just as well as they did. You had your job, yes...” 

 

Hours and hours of standing up to my elbows in soapy water, scrubbing pots and pans, the cacophony of the kitchen around me, chefs and pastry chefs buzzing through the kitchen like worker bees in a hive. Worker bees who took the opportunity to take jobs in their line of education, each month of high-school-level work worth more than my two diplomas taken together.

  
  


“But had to be shielded even there…” 

  
  


‘We create a safe environment for you here, with limited stimuli, but someone without your disorders could put in twice, thrice the amount of work you do,’ my boss had said during our last meeting. He must’ve been beyond pissed when I never showed. 

  
  


“Really, if you look at yourself objectively, you’re nothing more than a dumb child playing house, and we all know it won’t be long before the house burns down around your ears.” 

  
  


My breath catches in my throat, a sour taste on my tongue. A bubble of gas blocks my windpipe from the other end. Crouched on the floor with my fingers brushing over a book cover - what they’ve probably done since I spiraled into self-pity sob story mode - I look up at her, tears blurring my vision. I blink to clear my eyes and sniff. Without saying a word, I pull my fingers taut and lift them up for her to see. 

  
  


“A dumb child doesn’t stab and stab and stab until she’s severed limbs off a rapist,” I snap, my eyes hardening and my tears drying up. 

  
  


“A child doesn’t order her subordinates to brand someone, or ask her assistants to make a death row list.” 

  
  


I grit my teeth. “A dumb child doesn’t pile lie upon lie upon lie to keep the sky from splitting open!” 

  
  


Fear flashes through her blue eyes, my fingers are cramping up in their exertion of squeezing. Stannard heaves a dry, rasping cough and I squeeze tighter, narrowing my eyes and bringing my face inches from her reddening face, lowering my voice to a hush. 

  
  


(When did I move forward, springing like an arrow from a well-oiled bow?)

  
  


“A dumb child isn’t going to find a way to fix this damn mess other dumb children buried themselves into.” A rumble vibrates in my chest, coiling around my words. Stannard’s face goes purple, her bulging eyes flashing over my face in search of I don’t fucking know what. 

  
  


(When did I wrap my hands around her throat and start squeezing?)

  
  


“And next time you taunt someone for feeling aroused when they’re being choked, remember those kinds of things can go both ways, you stupid bitch.” 

 

I lift her off the ground and slam her against the shelf. Books topple and spill on the floor, loose pages drifting on the momentum. Blood wells up underneath my nails and I watch as Stannard fails to suck in a breath.

  
  


(When did I decide murder is okay?)

  
  


Something inside me thrums with pleasure, my heart thuds in my chest, my lungs squeeze with a malicious itch. 

  
  


Three shorts taps on my bicep. 

  
  


I snatch back my hands and if they’ve been burned. 

  
  


Damn martial art lessons. 

 

She shoves me roughly, weakly, before doubling over and alternating between sucking in fresh air and coughing her lungs into bruises. I wind her hair around my hand, pull up her head so she’s forced to look at me, and pummel her face with my fist. Cartilage breaks under my knuckles, followed by the wet dripping of blood. Stannard lets out a rasping choking sound and spits out blood. Droplets splatter on books and scrolls and some of them start to buzz and unroll, sigils and runes glowing an eerie deep red.

  
  
  


Rasping, her mouth and chin covered in blood, she bares her bloodied teeth at me. 

 

“Do you think-” Violent coughs snap her words into barely audible in half. They come out mangled, heavy and wheezing. Her face basks in a ruby red glow of flame, her lips twist into a smirk. 

  
  


“Do you think - that’s enough - demons - for an annulment - yet?” 

  
  


Nugshit.

 

* * *

**Polls close on February 4th.**

[ **Kirkwall Killer Tryptich** ](https://linkto.run/p/QVUYQL60)

[ **Corypheus** ](https://linkto.run/p/C5C1G78Q)

[ **HoF companions** ](https://linkto.run/p/BIJJJR3A)

[ **If you were…** ](https://linkto.run/p/422XSEHC)

[ **Post-order Vints delivery date** ](https://linkto.run/p/W8RYXXAK)

[ **When do the HoF and her companion(s) arrive?** ](https://linkto.run/p/13GSP7P5)

[ **Solas Tarot Card Romance theory** ](https://linkto.run/p/EIBR82BV)

[ **Slow Arrow** ](https://linkto.run/p/BIJTJE3A)

[ **Ain't got nothin' to hide** ](https://linkto.run/p/SOUAAN1R)

[ **Morrigan and Kieran, when?** ](https://linkto.run/p/YH2SS3BI)

[ **Healing storyline** ](https://linkto.run/p/S3RRP7T5)

[ **Blood Magic, Blight Magic** ](https://linkto.run/p/S3RRP7T5)

  
**[Help, my other assistant is a blank slate](https://linkto.run/p/62XJFT3L) **  
  


* * *

 

**For the lulz:**

Orsino is the local [**Magical Barefooter**](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/MagicalBarefooter) or [**Barefoot Sage**](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/BarefootSage)

 **-** By effectively slaughtering canon beyond recognition, Merethilda is [**Schrödinger's Gun**](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/SchrodingersGun) in the flesh. 

\-  [ **The Rain Man** ](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TheRainman) **.**

**\- Hey, look I[Found Solas](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TheMunchausen)**

 


	29. Summoning

**Poll results**

[ **Kirkwall Killer Tryptich** ](https://i.imgur.com/l44W59N.png)

[ **Corypheus** ](https://i.imgur.com/AxgZDb6.png)

[ **HoF companions** ](https://i.imgur.com/1970Di4.png)

[ **If you were…** ](https://i.imgur.com/ddLjgtW.png)

[ **Post-order Vints delivery date** ](https://i.imgur.com/tt3mKYf.png)

[ **When do the HoF and her companion(s) arrive?** ](https://i.imgur.com/cLISLhf.png)

[ **Solas Tarot Card Romance theory** ](https://i.imgur.com/VkOhD2w.png)

[ **Slow Arrow** ](https://i.imgur.com/9rXuobV.png)

[ **Ain't got nothin' to hide** ](https://i.imgur.com/gtXYSzK.png)

[ **Morrigan and Kieran, when?** ](https://i.imgur.com/hpSvETw.png)

[ **Blood Magic, Blight Magic** ](https://i.imgur.com/FwXC76X.png)

**[Help, my other assistant is a blank slate](https://i.imgur.com/SxVyoCI.png) **

**The link for the healing storyline poll accidentally led to the blight magic poll, my apologies for this.**

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 40 (25th of Cloudreach) 04:30 PM**

Mortified, I stare at her. She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip and laughs, her eyes sparkling in delight. Shadows flit and skitter at the edge of my vision, a buzz pops my ears and I stifle a scream when my world explodes into color and disjointed, fragmented sound. Dust clings to my eyelashes and prickles in my eyes. A gust of warm, putrid wind knocks me off my feet and I crash against a table, my ankle knocking against a leg and throbbing in protest. I hit my head and sparks explode behind my eyelids. Something small lodges in the corner of my left eye, stinging with the ferocity of a thousand bees. My eyes squeeze shut of their own accord. Huffing out quick, panicked breaths, I swipe them, minuscule grains of something brittle and sharp sticking my fingerpads and burning on my skin.

 

Nails on a school board, metal chair legs over concrete, glass shattering and spinning around its axis on the ground, gigantic rocks being smashed together, brittle bones snapping under pressure, the muscle being wrenched out of its socket. That’s what it sounds like. Above it all, Stannard’s crazed, hiccuping laughter rises. I roll on my belly, broken glowstones crunch underneath my kneecaps, and tiger forward using my elbows to drag myself over the ground. Sweat drips into my eyes and I blink, gritting my teeth together when my vision tints red.

 

Not sweat, then.

 

My eye keeps stinging, but not in a soon-to-be-Mrs-Braille way. It’s probably just dust. My right knee pops when I put it on the ground. I roll my eyes and ignore it. All right, think. This library is going to be filled to the brim with demons if I’m not careful. Stannard hisses, and I poke my head above an upturned table. She holds Certainty in one hand, her fingers wrapped around the hilt with care, and bleeds over the blade with her other hand, which is wrapped around the sharp edge. Her eyes meet mine over the ruckus and with a smirk, she slashes her hand through the air. A straight line of blackness opens at her fingertips, tremoring and surreal.

 

In the left field of my vision, a scroll stops shuddering, a red glow leaking off its surface onto the floor, where it gathers in a ghastly pool. Like spilled mercury, it bubbles. The bubbles pop and its broken edges upright themselves, growing tall and wide. Like melted wax, slivers cascade over the blob until they form arms, legs, eyes and a misshapen mouth.

 

Stannard giggles. “No wonder the mages can’t stay away from demons.” Breathy and light, her voice is so fucking inappropriate for this situation.

 

She levels her eyes to me, and I can’t tear my eyes from her savage grin, her bloodless lips, the blood caking around her smashed nose. Certainty mirrors a hundred fingers of glowing blue light. Almost like the puzzles in one of those brain training games…

 

“I think I’ll stick around once I’ve dealt with you,” she says, adjusting her grip on the sword. Her right fingers wrap around the guard, her left-hand grips the pommel in a relaxed, steady grip. Together, they hold the sword above her bellybutton. Certainty’s blade is a diagonal line of red, its tip pointing to the ceiling, the rest of the blade’s edge facing me.

 

Fuck. Charge? No, I’ll lob my own head off. Feign? No, she’ll pivot with me and sheer my head off. Run and slide to kick her legs out from under her? No way. She’ll wedge Certainty between my neck and shoulder with enough power to lodge it into my clavicle.

 

Purple mist spills from an opened book like mist from Pandora’s box on a magician’s stage. Within a heartbeat and a feather-light audible sigh, it thins and shapes itself into the curved form of a Desire Demon, curved horns angling backward. The demon blinks before cocking her head at Stannard. Its eyes drift over the ransacked library and finally, fall on me. My breath catches when muscles grow on legs and arms when its breasts turn flat and its chest more masculine. The blazing purple flame on its head turns into a loose blond ponytail, smoke curls around one ear and solidifies into a golden earring. Amber eyes stare at me from a frowning face, bottom lip sticking out in a forlorn pout.

 

Why, why do they always turn into Anders?! Okay, fine, I’m sexually attracted to the guy. Get over it.

 

Anders’s eyes alight, his lips twist into a cruel smirk, and with a flash and a bang that leaves my ears ringing, Isabela spins two dragonstone daggers in her fingers. With a bow that reveals, ah, a lot, she sheathes them and takes a step back.

Damn it.

 

Stannard gapes at Isabela, I lean my weight on my toes and peer past them. The doors are right there. With a bang, thick black mist explodes into the meanest grizzly Thedas has ever seen, complete with corrupted spikes on its back. Scars spiderweb over its long snout and black nose, and the bear grumbles and blinks at me with watery yellow eyes.

 

“Hhmbbr,” it grumbles before showcasing two rows of wickedly sharp teeth. “You woke me up, mortal.” Black lips curl back into a snarl. “Answer three riddles and I’ll do your bidding.”

 

My eyes widen. It’s that Sloth demon. Oh, this should be good.

 

Stannard’s triumphant smirk fades. Frowning, she glances from the demon to me. Isabela rolls her eyes and blows on her nails, before grabbing one dagger and filing them in one go. “He’s always like this. I’d answer if I were you. The ones who don’t tend to get eaten.”

 

Scowling, Stannard sheathes Certainty, folds her arms over her chest and Glares at Sloth. “Well?”

 

“I have seas with no water, coasts with no sand, towns without people and mountains without land. What am I?”

 

“A map.” I bite my tongue right after the words leave my lips. Fuck. Way to go, Grethilda, let’s answer the guy's riddles so he’ll get to eating you quicker. Stannard smirks at me.

 

“Clever one. Let’s move on. The second riddle: I’m rarely touched but often held. If you have wit, you’ll use me-.”

 

Isabela moves on to her other hand, skillfully using a dagger to pry muck out from under her nails.

 

“A tongue!” Stannard’s biting voice interrupts my fascination with Isabela’s nails and I step on my own foot. God damn it, focus!

 

Sloth hums to himself, swiveling his head from me to Stannard. “Well, well, well… It seems to be a tie. Answer the last one quick-”

 

“A dream.”

 

Sloth’s jaws snap shut, his red eyes taking me in. Stannard guffaws and unsheathes Certainty. “Fool,” she breezes, her cheeks flushed with color. Isabela curses when her grip on the dagger falters and she almost sheers the tips of her knuckles off instead of her nails.

 

Frozen, I hold my breath. Seconds tick by. Sloth regards me with glowing eyes.

Who are you what are you how do you know the answer to unasked questions what knowledge do you hold why are you here what do you seek-

Tingles erupt from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes and sweep through my body in one swift motion.

 

“A lucky guess,” Sloth says casually, shrugging his broad shoulders.

 

Liar liar pants on fire.

 

“Now, what shall I do for you, little one?” he asks. “Hurry up, before Languor steals my shade.”

 

“Hey!” Stannard bursts out, pointing at Sloth with her sword. “You said you’d answer to me!” She taps on her chest with her free hand.

 

Sloth raises his bushy eyebrows. “Did I? I don’t recall specifying which one of you I’d help. Though I suppose you are the same person… hm…” With deliberate sluggishness, he turns his head from Stannard to me.

 

“‘Answer three riddles and I’ll do your bidding.’” Sloth snaps his attention back to me.

 

He roars while he yawns, his wet tongue lolling out. “Fair enough.”

 

Yeah, okay, why exactly is he standing there watching me? Like he’s expecting something… Oh. Crap.

 

I hold up my hands, shaking my head. “Oh, no, I was just repeating what you…”

 

He roars loud enough to startle Isabela back into Desire Demon shape, showering me with bear slobber to boot. Ew. I shake saliva off my hands and huff out a mad little giggle.

 

“Oh, uh, wow, okay. Here we go. A sorcerer grants an old man three wishes. His first wish is immortality. The next day, he wakes up in the prime of his youth, but his entire village has become elderly overnight.”

 

Desire sticks out her tongue as if she’s tasted something dirty. Sloth nods, as if he knew this all along. Stannard frowns, her thick eyebrows creasing together.

 

I shuffle to my right, inch by tiny inch, hands balled into fists at my sides. Sure, they’re looking in my direction, but they’re not looking at me.

 

“He wishes for abundance and the crops on every field in his village overflow during the night. Outside his village, however, the Blight has raged through the lands and destroyed every settlement on the continent. He regrets his decision. His third wish… what’s his third wish?”

 

“To turn back time, to before he made his wishes,” Stannard says, her voice tight, her face ashen. Rooting to the spot, I meet her eyes and shake my head. The Hunger demon in the left corner has taken to stuffing its face with its own hand. Hunger knows no patience, just like traditional pasta. Heh.

 

“There’s no use in going back to the way things were before, learning nothing and losing your wishes to boot.”

 

Her eyes widen and she hums in amazement, before looking down at her hands. Her lips move in silent prayer. I roll my eyes and shuffle-step another inch closer to the doors.

 

Desire tilts her head to the side. “Longevity,” she says, tapping her fist on her hand. I jar in my aborted step, almost falling over from broken momentum, and manage a smile “He wishes for longevity for his village.”

 

“A cure for the Blight,” Sloth says decisively, brushing the others off.

 

The three of them stare at me expectantly.

 

The riddle is from a book I once read. For the life of me, I can’t remember the title of the book, let alone the answer to the riddle.

 

Uh...

 

Sweating, with my back prickling with unease, I spread my hands and theatrically widen my eyes, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Bereskarn, Desire demon, and Stannard lean forward, enraptured. Even the Hunger demon stops shoving its fists down its throat, blinking its beady eyes once, drool dribbling down the corner of its mouth and down its elbow.

 

“Nothing,” I say, darting to the doors. The hinges creak when I pull one open.

 

“What do you mean, nothing?!” Desire shrieks. I pivot, grab the handle, and grin at her.

 

“He leaves his last wish unused. For every wish granted, the sorcerer demands something of equal value in return,” I say, tossing my full weight backward, into the battle against rusty hinges. Note to self: drown the Gallows in oil so doors close when you want them to close. Or learn Force Magic. But oil is probably the easiest. “Ask nothing, and the sorcerer demands nothing.”

 

“That’s it!” Sloth roars. “That’s what he wove into the spell!”

 

“Who and what spell?!” Stannard demands, her eyes wide and round, the gash on the palm of her hand dripping with blood.

 

“Ignorant mortals! The spell. To cast the Veil between-”

 

The door slams shut. A sigh wooshes out of my mouth and I lean my head on my upper arm, against the door.

 

“Open the Maker-damned door! Move!” Cullen roars. I freeze, wood digging into my shoulder. Sword held in two hands, helmet discarded and eyes narrowed with frenzy, Cullen sprints at me with long strides. He’s still in his lyrium splattered armor.

 

Uh. Which one is it, open the door or move? God can people try to make sense for once?!

 

He stops when he’s level with the door, walks backwards until his back presses against the wall, draws in a deep breath, twists his bulk sideways and fuck, I narrowly duck out of the way when he throws his entire weight against the doors and it shatters into three jagged pieces, dusting the air with splinters. Coughing, Cullen manages to retain his balance, unsheathes his sword and-

 

Holy mother of Varteralls!

 

-sets in ablaze with blue flames.

 

Is it just me or is winter coming?  
Cullen hefts the blade above his head and chops Desire’s head clean off, drops into a crouch and kicks Hunger’s legs out from under him and stabs him in the chest, twisting and turning until the demon stops shuddering. Cullen springs to his feet like a well-oiled machine, glaring at Sloth. Sloth bares his teeth and roars, rearing up on his hind legs. Cullen’s blade looks ridiculously small compared to the giant bereskarn.

 

Bereskarn.

 

Sloth Demon.

 

Fuck.

 

Sloth demons form packs. They lay haphazardly thrown over each other in a pile of limbs and fur, wasting spending their life in companionable drowsiness.

 

One giant paw whacks Cullen, broad enough to hit his head and shoulder. His legs kick out when the momentum steals his balance, his heels touch the ground and then falls, hands stubbornly wrapped around his sword. A helmet would’ve protected him and his armor does protect his shoulder and torso, but his temple hits the sharp point of a table and he screams when his pauldron creaks and dents inward.

 

My legs burn, the back of my hand burns when I drag it past splintered wood, my toes catch on an upturned table and my chin smacks on the floor. Tears blur my vision, blood drips from my tongue into my mouth and my shoulders jar when I push myself up with a ferocity that’d make my high school gym teacher weep. Numerous splinters jut out of the back of my right hand, dripping with blood. Faint glowing glass cuts through both palms.

 

“Roll!” Cullen yells, voice catching before it rises to the limits of falsetto, and I tuck in my head, arms, and legs, and roll. Shards of smoldering metal ting and clink on the floor in the space I previously occupied. The metal has been scoured into a tarnished rainbow pattern. Either Cullen threw his sword and it broke, it was already broken, or Sloth smashed it.

 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck Rutherford now’s not the time to pull a damn Maric and heroically throw your sword at the enemy in an epic fail.  
Cullen is backed into a corner, caught between a bookshelf and a table resting on another bookshelf, on its side. Inside that, he’s caught between the table’s four legs, sticking out and limiting his range of motion. Top that with being defenseless and wounded - he’s down cradling his ankle - he’s dead as fuck.

 

Sloth rears up, corrupted spikes sticking out of his back, and roars in triumph. Cullen’s eyes are fire and he pushes himself up on his feet, only to wince and tilt. He glares at Sloth, hissing air out of his lungs and grabbing one of the table legs to keep himself upright. A glowstone next to him winks out before catching fire, blue tongues licking at the air. A thin column of black smoke rises up to the ceiling. Blood trickles down Cullen’s right arm.

 

“Stop!” I yell.

 

Sloth freezes.

 

Through the smoke and dust, Cullen’s eyes meet mine. They order me to run. My feet are rooted to the spot. I might as well have sprouted leaves.

 

“Run-” he shouts, before breaking off into a harsh coughing fit, doubling over. His right-hand grips the leg with enough strength to make it creak.

 

My toes throb with a dull ache when I all but drag myself toward Cullen. The last few inches are a free fall and my back collides with the table, pushing the air from my lungs. Blindly, I grope for Cullen’s arm and pull it around my shoulder to bear most of his weight.

 

“Flames, woman,” he growls. “You should’ve run when I told you to run.”

 

I glare at him. His face is ashen, his eyes are watery, his jaw is set. Guy didn’t become the lone surviving Templar of Kinloch Hold for nothing.

 

“I’m done running.” Every word is carefully enunciated, my eyes narrowed. A rumble grows in Sloth’s chest and throat.

 

“I didn’t call you.” My face is stern, my voice clipped and cold. “But I did answer your stupid riddle, and you didn’t know the answer to my riddle, so you have to do as I say.”

 

Sloth narrows his eyes, which looks ridiculous on a bear, even if it a giant demon Tainted one, but drops from his hind legs onto four legs. His left ear flicks as if a fly buzzes around it.

 

Silence is the voice of complicity.

 

“Back to the Fade with you.” Maybe it’s too much to level my glare and point to the door (which is not the Fade, much less a dog bed) but it can’t hurt to dredge up Dad’s good ole’ stern tone and look of ‘No, Spike! To bed!’

 

“As you wish,” Sloth says begrudgingly. He glares at Cullen. “Perhaps next time, we will fight again, mortal.”

 

My stomach churns. Sloth pads toward the shuddering black Veiltear, grimaces and sticks out his tongue, and throws himself through the ridiculously thin rift. It closes behind him.

 

Cullen exhales and leans his entire weight on me, which basically means we both collapse in a tangle of bruised limbs. The metal of his armor is slick with dust, ground glowstone, and heated lyrium. Lyrium, smoke and sweat waft in my nose. I cough once, grimace at a throb behind my forehead, cough again, and groan from the tips of my toes when a solid migraine settles behind my right eye, between my brows and above my brainstem.

 

Yes, I know the anatomically correct term for the bulge at the back of my head, because what else can I do when I’m in the front seat of the migraine rollercoaster misery ride?

 

“Meredith?” Cullen asks through the roar in my ears.

 

“Ugh. Go crawl in a ditch and die. Come back when my head takes mercy on me.”

 

* * *

  **Polls are open until the 16th.**

**[It's a long road before we reach the epilogue, but still...](https://linkto.run/p/S3RBP7T5) Added Jaws of Hakken as a votable option!**

**[The Origin character with the rescue storyline arc is:](https://linkto.run/p/K4VSNOMJ) **

**[The Origin with the revenge arc is:](https://linkto.run/p/QOB5F43T) Edited the poll dates, it is now open to voting!**

**[The Origin character with the healing storyline arc is:](https://linkto.run/p/EGPV8UBV) **


	30. Blackpowder

**Poll results**

**[Epilogue A and B](https://i.imgur.com/B4zzjgx.png) **

**[Rescue](https://i.imgur.com/3Bbg7g5.png) **

**[Revenge](https://i.imgur.com/xVkLWwS.png) **

**[Healing](https://i.imgur.com/yatWEa7.png) **

* * *

 

**Day 40 (25th of Cloudreach) 05:00 PM**

He chokes on a quick laugh. I let out an amused chuckle and-

  


Aaaaauuuuurghhhh shoot me

  


My stomach folds itself into an origami swan. My throat tightens. Colors of fern green, electric blue, dark purple and a sickening neon yellow avalanche over my eyes in a vertigo-inducing, ear-splitting cacophony. My ears beep, my eardrums are about to tear what with how tight they are, and something keeps popping and crackling.

  


“Uf.” I want to lay my hand on my forehead to see if smiting will help. Wobbling, I sway on my feet. My hand flops around. Find something to lean on. Find something sharp and heavy to stick my eye out with. Something dipped in Quiet Death. Or just Zevran and a knife. That’d do it. Cullen reaches out, and I sag against his arm like my legs are made out of wax.

  


“Shit,” he mutters. I cling to his arm like a drowning sailor in a stormy sea, while Cullen tries to flex his right arm in such a way he can use it to support me. It won’t budge against the dents in his armor.

  


“Did you hit your head?” he asks, peering into my eyes. I wish I could say he used his Romance eyes, but nope, strictly professional. With a dash of I-saved-your-life-you-saved-my-life-we’re-battle-buddies-now.

  


“How about you ask me what I didn’t hit, today. Oh, how was your Harrowing?” I ask dryly. He grimaces and starts loosening clasps on his armor.

  


“Awful. I was back in…” Cullen trails off, cursing when his pauldron refuses to budge. Automatically, I dry my hands on my pants, grip the cold metal, put my foot above his knee and push and pull with all my strength. The pauldron screeches and gives one inch before catching on something. Cullen groans.

  


“Anyway,” he says, staring down at his hands, wiggling his fingers, where blue sparks wink in and out of existence. “Let’s just say I set fire to every demon in the vicinity.”

  


My heart stops. ‘Did you see Sloth demons?’ is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back. Just like the stomach acids that desperately want to say hello to the world.

  


“Time for Anders.” Cullen stops fussing with the straps on his other pauldron and pinches the bridge of his nose, accompanied by an irritated sigh.

  


I narrow my eyes. “No buts. You’re bleeding, head’s killing me, off to Darktown.”

  


“Why doesn’t he just move?” Cullen mutters, before glancing around the library.

  


One half of a torn scroll drifts down to join a thousand others, ashes speckle the floor dusted with sawdust, and at least one demon left a puddle of bright vermillion goo on the floor. It’s not doing the damaged scrolls any good.

  


“The rats would miss him.” My tongue is thick and sticks to the roof of my mouth. Cullen chuckles and tests his weight on his ankle. I extend my arm to catch him if he falls. It ends up almost smacking him in the face when he drops through his knees, face scrunched up, and lips pulled up into a snarl.

  


“We should do something about your shoulder,” I say. Left foot forward, right foot forward. You have a migraine, Grethilda, not an amputated foot.

  


Technically, I wouldn’t have the amputated foot anymore either, but… oh, nevermind.

  


“It’s just-”

“Just a flesh wound. Got it, Rutherford. Come back to talk when you’re nothing but a torso.”

  


Cullen gives me a side-eyed glance. The corners of his lips curl into a smile. “I’d hope not. Wouldn’t want to give the Templars nightmares.”

  
  


Cullen closed the library doors and enlisted a brown-haired, freckled Tranquil with Chasind yellow eyes to stand guard and keep everyone out. I asked for his name, which turned out to be a God-forsaken mixture of softly pronounced consonants with some harsh vowels sprinkled in.

  


I blinked at ???, slapped him on the shoulder and said: “Howdy, Bob! If you see any demons, scream and run as fast as your little legs can carry you, yes?”

  


Now, as we shuffle-groan through the Docks (not to be confused with the docks, on the other side of… fuck that, we’re in Lowtown, and that’s enough geography for today), Cullen mutters: “Bob. Oh, Maker’s balls,” every few minutes, accompanied by a hearty chuckle and a shake of his head.

  


Cullen flexes his arm. A fresh gust of blood cascades from his pauldron, coating his armor red instead of dried-blood-black.

  


He grabs my arm when I want to head left. “There’s a quicker way through this Side Alley.”

  


I frown at him. “Wait, capital letters?”

  


Cullen’s eyebrows drop while his eyes turn heavenward. “The Tevinter architect who built Kirkwall was a master in originality, yes. Did you know that he...”

  


“Left magically glued paintings of his elven staff and noble friends all over Kirkwall?” I ask with heavily-lidded eyes. “Yes.”

  


Stupid Vints.

  


Sorry, Dorian.

  


“At least the dwarves aren’t narcissist in their spare time,” Cullen mutters, as he pulls me toward (the?) Side Alley.

  


“Diamond Quarter, the Proving, Lord such-and-so’s estate, the Gnawed No- no, wait, that’s in Denerim.”

  


Cullen sighs and grits his teeth. “All right, all right, we’re all narcissist on a bad day.”

  


Someone admits it! Oh, be still my beating heart.

  


I misjudge the distance between me and a wall on a right turn and smack into it, bruising my shoulder.

  


Nope, still a Muggle.

  


I knew it. I knew Side Alley sounded familiar for a reason. Ugh.

  


At the other side of the alley, a young elf with a ridiculously sexy blond undercut holds out his hands, palm facing towards one of the dozen stray nobles that prefer Lowtown over Hightown. Something about ‘not forgetting their common friends.’ My ass.

  


“Maferath’s neutered mabari, knife-ear! When I tell you to fetch the barrels for my guests, I mean wine, not ale! This drag is a stain on my exquisitely cultivated sophisticated, urbane party!”

  


Someone give that man a glass of water to swallow his Thesaurus: Unnecessary Adjectives Limited Edition with, please. I think it got lodged between his long-windedness and pettiness.  

  


Cullen’s step wavers when Stray Noble pulls up his Not-A-Mage-Robe-Robe (trademark symbol) and aims for the elf’s gut with a kick. I grit my teeth.

  


The elf straightens his shoulders and steps into the empty space in Stray Noble’s guard. He grabs Stray Noble’s outstretched arm at the elbow and uses Stray Noble’s own momentum to slam him head-first into the barrel. The barrel creaks and sheds splinters when Stray Noble’s face is shoved through. Stray Noble screams a scream that turns into choppy bubbles when the elf leans his weight on Stray Noble’s head.

  


“Fuck you and your stupid wine!” the elf shouts. The scream dies down, and Stray  Noble’s arms flail in jarring motions, his legs slamming against the barrel when they spasm.

  


Cullen leaves my side, reaches the elf and slams him on the back of his head with his left fist. He’s not left-handed, and almost misses, so the punch lacks strength. Combine that with Cullen being injured, and he might as well have waved at the elf’s head. Elf Boy twists around in such a way he must’ve pulled a muscle in his ribs, it happens to me often enough for them to ache vicariously, anyway. He backs away when his wild eyes land on Cullen, in full Templar regalia, covered in demon muck and bleeding from a wounded shoulder.

  


An elven woman climbs the stairs to the walkway above Side Alley. She watches with keen eyes, a vallaslin of leaves weaving around her blush.

  


And how the fuck do I know that from all the way down here while she’s up there, obscured by the sun on her back?

  


With a distinct hollow click, a crossbow is loaded. Elven Girl holds up her hand like an emperor at a colosseum.

  


Cullen grabs Stray Noble by the shoulder and hauls him up, heedless of the splinters scraping across the man’s face. Stray Noble’s hair sticks against his head like a wet mat, and he gulps air into his lungs, his throat wheezing with greed.

  


Click. Click. Click.

  


Well, that’s not good.

  


“Hurry the fuck up, Rutherford,” I mutter. God knows where the crossbowmen/women are hiding, and god knows what they’re aiming at. At least Cullen’s armor will stop a bolt or two. If it doesn’t hit his shoulder.

  


A Kossith climbs the stairs of a different section and heaves himself on the walkway. “City elves!” he roars in a voice so weighed down it’s almost a bass in its own right.

  


”You are not slaves! You have a purpose in this world! All have a purpose in this world! All have a purpose under the Qun! All have a place under the Qun!”

  


We’ll Take Anyone

 

(Except For Mages)

 

~~(And Speechwriters)~~

  


Elf Girl regards him with cold, detached interest and doesn’t reply. Instead, she brings her arm down, slicing through the air in a fluid motion, the wind playing with a strand of graying hair.

  


Cullen turns around so fast it’s almost a blur, using an unfortunate Stray Noble as a meat shield against the bolt meant for him. Stray Noble shrieks until Cullen shoves him in the direction of an alcove, shouting something that’s lost underneath an SSSSSSSHHHHHSSSSSSSS that comes from every direction. Green mist curls its way into the alley, blurring everything within seconds.

  


“Saar-gamek! Poison! Pull back and inform Arishok!” the Kossith shouts over his shoulder.

  


Yeah, like that’s going to help anyone in this Maker-damned alley.

 

* * *

 

**Polls are open until 23 February**

 

**[What did Mahariel say to Zevran when she recruited him?](https://linkto.run/p/WCVYXGRK) **

**[Did Mahariel have sex with Isabela at the Pearl?](https://linkto.run/p/Y9HVPKMM) **

**[Who is Merethilda's first, in terms of sex?](https://linkto.run/p/RJ6MFOZ6) **

**[Solona Amell's Storyline arc](https://linkto.run/p/D1HBFS7B) **

**[Who uses Saar-Gamek as a cover to attack Merethilda?](https://linkto.run/p/8H2SECBI) **

**[Who attacks Merethila under the genuine influence of Saar-Gamek?](https://linkto.run/p/03W245K7) **

**[How does the Saar-Gamek influence Merethilda?](https://linkto.run/p/KU53Z3PN) **

**[The M.O that saves Side Alley](https://linkto.run/p/C50I278Q) **

**[How does Merethilda's Cassandramance progress?](https://linkto.run/p/WXNYXGRK) **


	31. Wings

**TRIGGER WARNING FOR** **TOURNIQUET APPLICATION , CARDIAC ARREST** **AND** **CARDIOPULMONARY RESUSCITATION (CPR)** **!**

 [ **The difference between a heart attack and cardiac arrest:**](https://cpr.heart.org/AHAECC/CPRAndECC/AboutCPRECC/CardiacArrestvsHeartAttack/UCM_473213_Cardiac-Arrest-vs-Heart-Attack.jsp)

 [ **Heart.org's CPR guide**](https://cpr.heart.org/idc/groups/ahaecc-public/@wcm/@ecc/documents/downloadable/ucm_495656.pdf)

 [ **CPR often leads to broken ribs. Do not let this deter you from providing CPR!**](https://www.reuters.com/article/us-cpr-often-leads-to-broken-ribs-idUSBRE8721IF20120803)

 [ **The Red Cross** ](https://www.icrc.org/en) **.**

* * *

**Poll results:**

**[What did Mahariel say to Zevran when she recruited him?](https://i.imgur.com/9w0XTy6.png) **

**[Did Mahariel have sex with Isabela at the Pearl?](https://i.imgur.com/NxKZkpC.png) **

**[Who is Merethilda's first, in terms of sex?](https://i.imgur.com/6Tak3GY.png) **

**[Solona Amell's Storyline arc](https://i.imgur.com/8egSqEa.png) **

**[Who uses Saar-Gamek as a cover to attack Merethilda?](https://i.imgur.com/c04hDUv.png) **

**[Who attacks Merethila under the genuine influence of Saar-Gamek?](https://i.imgur.com/k8vSgZp.png) (The tie resolved the day before the poll closed. Most of this chapter was written the day before that.)**

**[How does the Saar-Gamek influence Merethilda?](https://i.imgur.com/zGFPxGI.png) **

**[The M.O that saves Side Alley](https://i.imgur.com/cDM0ZE3.png) **

**[How does Merethilda's Cassandramance progress?](https://i.imgur.com/vnDVMhg.png) **

* * *

The Kossith reaches for Elf Girl with his knobby hand. Well out of his reach, she points a slender finger at the Kossith and shouts something in elven. Her hidden accomplices react by turning him into a pincushion. The Kossith grunts, snaps a few bolts in half and janks them out, before hauling himself on top of the railing and diving for Elf Girl on the other platform. Elf Girl screams. One of his hands wraps around her face, and her cry morphs into muffled groans. The platform below their feet creaks, floorboards snap and splinter, and before long both of them are falling in a cascade of fragments and metal.

The Kossith hits the floor first, and a large splinter of metal pierces the skin on his forehead. Elf Girl hits her head against a wooden beam, her nails catching and breaking on the uneven surface as she scrabbles for purchase. She falls on top of the Kossith with her back to the ground. The metal splinter sticks out of her chest, piercing her flesh between the shoulder blades. Both lay still.

 

Screech. Behind me.

 

I whirl around just in time to see the sun reflecting on bare steel, and jerk up my arm to shield myself from the blinding glow. My assailant wears Chantry red and yellow and has a sword-

 

A sword which narrowly slices through the air inches away from my right ear. Back up, back up, back up!

 

Right foot behind my left, left foot behind my right, right foot behind my left, on and on and on while my blonde-haired assailant readjusts her grip on her sword. Bloodstains and red flecks on her cheeks, mirrored in the bloodstained sword.  Not hers, then. The corners of her mouth point down, her eyebrows forming a V of anger.

 

“Petrice, I’m sure we can talk about this.” My fingers are splattered with dirt, there’s a black ring underneath my nails. My nails are worn, hooks sticking out. Half of them have been chewed on. Heaven knows what my palms look like. It’s not like Petrice would give a damn anyway.

 

One end of her Chantry robe is stained a darker red. Dots of blood color her yellow sash. She squints, looking up through lowered eyebrows. Her fingers are wrapped tightly around her sword, knuckles whitening. Her wrist twitches.

 

Spasms. Petrice's grip is too tight. With a grunt, she trumps her fingers against the hilt, shoulders hunching in. One step toward me.

 

Her right foot doesn’t roll all the way to her toes in a complete arc, her left knee pops when her left foot slams down on the ground, she twists her knee to the right and scowls. My knee throbs in vicarious pain. She bites her bottom lip when she draws her dominant arm back and janks. I breathe in the green mist through my nose and blow it out through my mouth.

 

“I don’t think so, Meredith.” The sword slashes out in my direction, and I suck in my stomach. Petrice gasps when her elbow pops, the crack resounding in my ears. Her wrist gives a spasm to the right, and her fingers bend backward when the sword’s weight overtaxes her strained sinews. The sword clangs on the ground. Petrice swears and dives for it. I throw myself against her shoulder, my right knee hitting hers. It pops. Her fingers are on my eyes, pressing with a vengeance. In answer, I bang my forehead against hers. With a grunt, she lets go. Stars drown out my vision. I roll to the left, my fingers burning over the dry ground, splinters pricking into my skin.

 

Tinkling of shattering glass as a sword grinds over the empty space on my right. Its gleaming silverite blade is broad and shiny. My eyes follow the blade up to the guard and pommel, held in a confident grip by greaved hands. Hands that lead up to more steel. A breastplate glimmers in the evening sun, decorated with the rough carving of two slits that always look like eyes to me. A V-line below the neck, the steel protecting the ribs covered with orange leather.

 

In a flash of chainmail and orange hair, Aveline Vallen strikes for my chest.

 

Shimmering white energy springs to life around my arm when I pull it over my chest. Her blade screeches against the barrier. Aveline heaves a breath and leans more weight into the strike. The barrier dents inwards. Aveline’s moss green eyes are wrinkled with hatred, a grimace wrinkles the skin around her mouth.

 

I can roll to my right, and she’ll follow me with her blade until the tip bites into my spine at the base of my neck. I can run to my right, and she’ll do the same. The barrier hums and pulsates, the indentation grows, pressing against the back of my wrist.

 

“Captain!” The man that comes to a halt at Aveline’s side is dressed in City Guard armor, a light brown stubble stands out against his pale cheeks and morphs into thick sideburns at his temples. His eyes are muddy brown and widened in concern. One hand rests on his sword, while he holds his other arm before him, shield strapped on tightly.

 

Aveline’s mouth tightens. “Stay out of this, Donnic.” Goosebumps break out over my skin at the disdain in her voice. She thrusts her sword at me, and my heart skips a beat when the white barrier winks out, giving the sword two inches before it springs back into existence and halts it.

 

“But-” Donnic holds up his hand to her. Aveline snarls and whirls on him. Her sword catches on my barrier and clings to the ground. I dive for it, wrapping my hands securely around the guard and pommel. My biceps scream when I lift it up. I grind my molars. God damn it, Aveline has a massive sword. I wouldn’t be surprised if she could lift a giant ax and merrily start chopping wood if asked. My own pale face looks back at me in the silverite blade, with crazy blue eyes and mouth hanging open.

 

Cullen’s face emerges in the reflection next to mine, his shoulders set low, and his jaw tightened. In his right hand,  he holds a bloodied sword. He looks down while he strides, his eyebrows furrowed in an angry frown. Our eyes meet. I whirl. My sword describes a wide outward arc, narrowly pushing Cullen’s blade out of its trajectory for my chest. Cullen’s brown eyes flit over my body, assessing the stance of my feet - too close together, right foot pointing inwards and left foot looking outwards - the way I hold my blade - clumsily, with slumped shoulders and bent spine - the way my chest heaves up and down in frantic staccato.

 

Avelina and Donnic might as well have evaporated. They’re not in my way or in my sight, that’s for sure, anyway.

 

I thrust my arm up and away from Cullen. In a quick move, he has his blade out from under my arm, a hand on my elbow, and janks me forward, his sword pointing up towards my unprotected lower belly. Bladder, appendix, kidney, what else was there? I throw all my weight to the left and his blade cuts into my leather jacket, a stripe of fire blazing to life on my skin. My taut hands clap over his ears and Cullen groans, staggering away from me with one hand to his forehead. His blade hits the ground when he abandons it in favor of leaning against the wall, flinching when he puts weight on his injured shoulder.

 

Sorry, Cullen.

 

I slam into his side with my right hip, and he screams when his shoulder hits the wall. Blood gushes out in streams, the metal cutting deep into flesh. He goes down, rolls in an attempt to minimize the impact, and barrels into the wall with his injured shoulder again. His fingers twitch, and his entire body shakes when he pushes himself up on his knees, drawing in shallow breaths and cradling his injured arm.

 

Sorry, I’m so sorry, sorry.

 

My knee hits his chin, and his head snaps back, hitting the wall. He sprawls on the ground, unmoving. There’s no-one around us, and I crouch down, eyes rolled up and eyelids closed, mouthing prayers Maker please please let him live, please-

 

A frantic pulse flutters beneath his neck. I lay my hand on my cheek and bite my lip when his head lolls to the side. My fingers creep up in his hair, catching on blonde ringlets. I tug them loose and prod the back of his head. Just a bulge. He’ll have one hell of a headache, but that’s it. Thank you, Maker. I unbuckle his sword belt and strap it on myself, sheathing his stolen blade. My hand rests on the pommel. I turn my back to him, bend an inch through my knees and straighten my spine and round my shoulders.

 

A pool of thick, dark blood reaches my boots and surpasses them, urged by the tide and ebb of Cullen’s heartbeat. My breaths intermingle when I search for a pulse and find nothing until I do find a heartbeat when I dig my fingers into his wrist. His heart beats with the ferociousness of a hummingbird. A blue hue stretches beneath his fingernails.

 

His lips are blue.

 

Oh, God-forsaken fuckfest of fuckity fuck.

 

“Hey! Help! Someone help us! Here! Oh, fuck oh fuck oh fuck no no no.”

My screams fall on deaf ears, swords clanging against swords, people screaming, people dying, fire blazing and crackling and ice cold green mist filling my lungs with each panicked inhale.

 

You’re supposed to apply pressure to out-of-control bleedings. You’re supposed to apply constant pressure on, above or below out-of-control bleedings.

 

Cullen’s wound is circular, caused by metal cutting into his skin, cutting through flesh, muscle, and sinew.

 

I never had First Aid. I don’t have a commercial tourniquet. I don’t even have the medieval equivalent of a commercial tourniquet. I don’t even have the knowledge of how to use a DIY tourniquet. I don’t even have a DIY tourniquet.

 

I yank the belt off my shoulder and cut off a strip of leather the length of my arm. Cullen’s pauldron won’t budge, so I slide the tip of my sword underneath an edge, resting the rest of the blade on top of the empty sheath.

 

Don’t fuck this up don’t fuck this up don’t fuck this up don’t cut off his arm don’t cut off his arm don’t cut off his arm.

 

An unholy screech reverberates through my skull. The sword slips, an icy coldness falls through my body and lingers at the tips of my sweaty fingers. Then it jars and catches on something and the pauldron clangs and gives those precious two inches that I needed. I drop to my knees, teeth clashing together on the impact, grasp the sword by the blade and slide it out. The blood coating it is just from the wound, not from a cut. Just Cullen's shoulder wound, not something I caused. It has to be. It has to be and fuck anyone who tells me otherwise.

 

The blade cuts into my palms, and I put it on the ground next to me. Kneeling on my heels, I wrap my fingers around the lukewarm, bloodied pauldron and pull each hand in a different direction. With a soft click, the two parts give way and see themselves carelessly thrown over my shoulder. Two metallic thuds resound when they hit the ground. I slide the leather strap under his armpit, adjust the length, so both ends are equal, tie them around the pommel of the sword with plenty to spare, put my leg on his armbrace and start turning. The leather creaks and flakes. Bones are in the way. I don’t even know if you’re supposed to apply a tourniquet around the shoulder area.

 

When it’s tight enough - let it be tight enough please Maker I beg you - I rest back on my heels and stare at my make-shift tourniquet. Does it squeeze out blood that was already in the wound, or is he still bleeding? My heart thunders in my chest, and my throat constricts. Okay. Tourniquet applied. Bleeding stopped. The result is a thick braid of twisted leather tied to the pommel of a bloodied sword.

 

Now what? Remove the sword, and the leather will untwist itself while I fumble around to make a knot. Make the knot with the sword still there, and the sword is in the way.

 

My fingers tremble and spasm while I tie a knot and then add a second one just to be sure. Fuck the sword. The cold green mist stings my eyes, moisture blurring Cullen into a smudge of silver, gold, and red. So much red. It sticks to my fingers and the back of my hands, coalescing on my knuckles. My forehead itches, skin pulled tautly, my fingers touching more coalesced blood when I tap my fingers against the surface. Trembling all over, I rub my fingers to my lips and taste salt and copper. I drag my fingers through my hair and scrape my nails over my scalp.

 

“Any-” My voice is rough, hoarse and catches midway. My throat closes on itself, and I hunch in on myself when I cough, pressing both hands to my chest.

 

Saar-Gamek. In addition to making people go insane and turn friend against friend, it’s also poisonous. Heaven knows how long I’ve been breathing it in, sucking it greedily into my lungs under the throes of hyperventilation and shock.

 

Cullen stopped twitching. Black bubbles stand out sharply against the bloodied tissue of his shoulder wound. I gape at them, gasping for air that won’t fill my lungs. On the ground, the red blood intermingles with a thick black substance. A soft wheeze slips out of the tight band around my throat. I scoop one hand into my own-

 

His fingernails stretch over blackening skin his fingerpads are black and shriveled oh god no no no not black blood anything but black blood please Maker, please.

 

Biting the raw edge off a sob, I slap his hand on the ground, lace my fingers together and press them to the middle of his chest.

 

Nothing.

 

Press.

 

One

 

Press.

 

Two.

 

Press.

 

Three.

 

Press.

 

Four.

 

Press.

 

Five.

 

Chapped, thin lips, ice cold, chest rising when I breathe damned green mist into his lungs.

 

Press.

 

One

 

Press.

 

Two.

 

Press.

 

Three.

 

Press.

 

Four.

 

Press.

 

Five.

 

My chest caves in with sobs and I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe searing blue fire into his lungs. It burns the moisture in my throat, turns my own lungs into burning sandpaper, coats my lips and face and nose in a mask of agony. My stomach churns, my heart skips several beats and never quite reclaims its pace. My next inhale is so cold pinpricks stab my lungs.

 

Press.

 

One

 

Press.

 

Two.

 

Press.

 

Three.

 

Press.

 

Four.

 

Press.

 

Five.

 

A hollow, pale gray stretches out from Cullen’s forehead, Death’s pale fingers caressing his eyelids and the skin around his eyes, the tip of his nose turns black. Lips that have slackened in a pool of pale, waxy skin. I curl my fingers around his chin, tilting his head back and press my lips against his terrifyingly blue lips, cold with death waiting in the wings.

 

Alis grave nil.

Nothing is heavy to those who have wings.

 

* * *

  **Polls:**

**[Cullen's fate lies in YOUR hands](https://linkto.run/p/U8B6Q8DD) **

**[Varric's nickname for Merethilda](https://linkto.run/p/EGD98XBV) **


	32. #FuckFlemeth

**Poll results**

[ **Cullen's Fate** ](https://i.imgur.com/YP6soka.png)

[ **Merethilda's nickname** ](https://i.imgur.com/azSTt4t.png)

* * *

 

 

Fire uses oxygen as fuel. It’s not oxygen.

  


Keep going, Grethilda.  Ignore the ache in your shoulder blades and your elbows and your wrists and ignore the crackling sound Cullen’s ribs make when you press and press and press. Lean your arm above his shoulder, don’t lean on him.

  


Most of all, ignore the fact that you turned your back on the battlefield, are unarmed, vulnerable, and fighting to save someone’s life.

  


The last time that happened…

  


I press my lips against Cullen’s again and exhale, forcing air into his unmoving lungs. My interlaced hands press down on the middle of his chest, again and again, and again. How long have I been doing this?

  


Once, I saw an episode of a soap series where a character’s heart had ceased beating. Can’t remember why. I do remember another character asking the CPR-applier how long he’d been like this, and when the answer was ‘ten minutes,’ shaking his head and telling the applier to stop, it was over, there was nothing they could do.

  


The character’s ghost had watched on, a footstep away from his broken body, even though the soap series had nothing to do with the supernatural.

  


Cullen’s broken, and I don’t know how to fix him.

  


I keep compressing, anyway.

  


Even if my arms are burning.

  


Even if my throat is closing on itself.

  


Even if my eyes won’t stop filling with tears and my bottom lip won’t stop quivering.

  


Even if my puffs of breath have long turned into anguished whimpers, the kind you make when you want nothing more than to grab your own sides to keep yourself from falling apart.

  


Maker, help me. You don’t know me. Maybe you do. Do you see me as competition, or am I an ant underneath your withering gaze? But please. Help me. Help Cullen, if you don’t want to help me. You struck him down once, and he rose against all the odds. Now rise him up again. Or so help me Fen-fucking-Harel, I will shatter the gates to your Black City and seek recompense myself.

  


Press. Exhale.

  


Even if it unleashes the Evanuris.

  


Inhale. Press. Exhale.

  


Even if it unleashes the mother of all Blights.

  


Inhale. Press. Exhale.

  


And if the world burns while the elves wage war, the dwarves regain their magic, the Qunari set sail and conquer the world, and the human folk drop like flies, so be it.

  


No-one gets to die on my watch.

  


They can die when they’re old and grey and five-hundred years old, and not a day sooner.

  


Do you hear me?!

  


**I hear you. We understand your cries, your desperation. Feed us. Let us feed on your pain. Gift me your hatred, gift me your desire. Give me your soul and body. Your body in return for his life. A simple deal- beneficial to- a trade- I’ll hide in the corner of your mind- silence is a virtue, death is a friend of none. Friend of Sloth, great and terrifying beauty- spirit-sister of Urthemiel, hear our promise: his life for entrance into the world of the living. Accept, and he lives. Accept, and we shall conquer.  Accept, and we shall be gods of every kind- hunt down the pretender gods- bring the Chantry to its knees- see it, hear it, feel it in our call.**

  


I’d become… something I’m not. Something different. Something greater. Intense, beautiful, terrifying. I’d sink my claws into the Chantry as if it a porous rock.

  


My stomach squeezes together, as does my throat.  Prickling adrenalin surges through my arms and legs, nestling in my toes and fingertips. My heart is a rugged dark horse with a sleek black coat, tossing its majestic head in violence, leg muscles rippling in a smooth gallop.

  


Except, there’s no way in hell I’m skipping a compression or a breath in favor of agreeing to anything, even if it were the throne of the Maker Himself.

  


Shoo, there are enough dying people. Go find yourselves a vegetable to possess.

  


One that isn’t-

  


No.

  


Cullen might not be breathing, but he’s not vegetative.

  


He’s not he’s not he’s not he’s not he’s not he’s not he’s not he’s not he’s not.

  


He’s all right. He’s going to be all right. He has to be.

  


I swallow past the lump in my throat, past the tightening band around my windpipe.

  


What will I do, if he isn’t? How can you be the same person after that?

  


A mirthless chuckle slips through the cracks. Voices ebb and flow in the din around me. My vision narrows to my bloodied hands on Cullen’s chest.

  


Press.

  


Live.

  


Press.

  


Live, damn it.

  


Press.

  


I’m a fucking Old God, and I command you to live, you stupid loyal brave.

  


Press

  


idiot commander

  


“...on. This one’s-”  A distinct voice, a distinct lilt, weighed down by exhaustion and sorrow.

  


“No.”  A lighter voice, male, sharp and biting.

  


“But-”

  


“I said **NO!** ” The voice deepens, a dozen weary voices rising underneath. “Didn’t you listen? I can hear...”

  


“... sure it’s not a de-”

  


“That’s it, **I’m carrying you**.”

  


“Don’t you da- Hey!”

  


“ **You’ll walk**?”

  


“Yes, yes. I swear it on Lyna’s Mabari. Just… Just calm down, okay? You’re glowing.”

  


“Damn it, Lee, stop dragging me.” A quiet hiss through what’s probably a set jaw. “ **Never ask me to abandon dying mortals again.** ” A booming, echoing voice, the sound of sizzling electricity.

  


“ **Shut up, spirit. She’s more important than a bunch of high-horsed hypocrites.** ”

  


“ **It is an injustice to** -”

  


**_Breathe!_ **

 

“- **DID YOU HEAR THAT!?”** Justice’s booming voice lapses into a higher tone, heavy footfalls thud on the ground. Another set joins them.

  


“ **It was heard all the way into the Black City, spirit. Shut up and keep going.** ”

  


My arms shake, the tendons in my wrist might as well have become splints, my fingers ache with a dull throb. I exhale against Cullen’s lips. My neck pops when I crane it, my right-hand spasms once and refuses to move, fire springs to life in the hamstrings of my right leg. Lee twists around the corner into my side of Side Alley, trademark Templar armor clanging when he drops to his knees at Cullen’s side. His glowing red eyes take us in.

  


“You did well. Let us tend to Cullen now.” The thick, scraping voice chases goosebumps over my flesh. I narrow my eyes and look over my shoulder, where Anders narrowly pushes himself off to the wall to keep from barreling into it.

  


“Maker, how is he still alive?” His face is pale, his fingers curled into fists, his hair is damp, and blood splattered and one lock sticks into his right eye.

  


A shimmering aura of red coils around Lee’s fingers. He sticks his arms through mine and lays his fingers on Cullen’s chest, around my fingers.

  


I meet his eyes. He raises his eyebrows and presses his lips together. “You can remove your hands.”

  


Okay. Breathe in, breathe out. I snatch my hands back, Lee claps his hands down on Cullen’s chest, Cullen’s eyes snap open and roll around in his head. Air wheezes in his throat when he forcibly breathes in, his neck snapping in odd angles.

  


“Lee?!” My eyes are full and round. A pale, bubbly foam bubbles over Cullen’s lips. y heart hammers against my chest, squeezing in fear. My cramped hands tremble as one limb. I can’t breathe. Something’s stuck in my throat and fear crushed my lungs into a useless pulp.

  


Muscles pop and snap Mand I scream bloody murder when Cullen’s ribs puncture his chest, sticking out in sharp white angles. Blood spurts into my face when I gasp for breath and throw myself off Cullen, gagging on the black blood in my lungs. Curled up on the sticky ground, I clutch at my throat and spit out a mouthful of crimson and black.

  


Breathing in gulps of air, I lift my head off the ground and stare at Anders through a haze of tears. Anders’s eyes are round, one hand rests on his chest, the other clapped over his mouth. I growl on my exhale. Useless healer. Worst doctor in the world, damn it.

  


Not that Lee is doing much better. If there is a bone in Cullen’s body that can fracture and shatter, you bet it’s doing it. He already lost an enormous amount of blood, and now he’s suffering even more. Any more and the outflux of blood is going to stop because there’s nothing left.

  


“Lee!” Anders hisses through a clamped jaw. Lee’s red eyes flit from Cullen’s chest to his ruined shoulder. He lays his hand on Cullen’s throat, whispers some Arcane word that has the red haze around him spiral up. My hands are slick and lukewarm, dripping even. I blink, look down at them, and wince. Rivulets of bright red blood run down my fingers, catching the last rays of the sun in an eerie glow.

  


“Sorry, but your blood is more potent than mine, so…” Lee shrugs and presses his fingers against Cullen’s throat.

  


“Anders, I want you to take deep, long breaths. Four seconds on inhales, four seconds on exhales, and don’t stop until I tell you to. Don’t stagger, don’t waver, don’t lean against the wall, just don’t move an inch until I tell you to. Yes?”

  


With wide eyes, Anders nods. Lee rubs circles on Cullen’s throat and as he does so, a cord of light white energy ripples out from between his fingers, shifting and rolling in the air. It glides toward Anders, expanding into a window of snow. A darker, grittier grain gives wing to an ethereal bird, black-capped with dark fading gray plumage. The bird spreads its wings until the tips cut through the window of white, a shrill wail comes out of its bright yellow beak, an unseen wind buffets its wings from below, lifting above the white energy.

  


The energy spills over its winged shape, brightening into a glowing white orb. The orb throws itself into a somersault, reshaping as a sleek gray bottlenose dolphin. Tail and nose almost meet when it rolls again, gliding through dark water.

  


“Stop showing off and get to it!” I snap, shaking out my hands. Droplets of blood splatter on the ground. Lee grimaces and waves his hand at the dolphin, which thins into a column of white smoke and finally, into smoldering white coal.

  


Directed by Lee’s slashing motion, the coal punches Anders in the throat. Anders coughs, gags and sputters with a hand wrapped around his neck. The coal bobs up and down in front of Anders’s face until Anders makes a grab for it.

  


“I told you how to breathe,” Lee cuts in, holding out his hand for the coal to land on. “It’s not my fault you didn’t listen.”

  


Anders narrows his eyes, opens his mouth and draws in a big breathe, and whirls around clutching his throat. His lungs wheeze in between coughs. Rolling his eyes, Lee nimbly moves the coal, so it rests on his thumb and shoots it away with his index finger. A white flash squeezes my eyes shut, an electric ZING! Rumbles all the way through my molars, pebbles and the sword-turned-tourniquet reverberate on the ground, and my stomach flip flops with vertigo.

  


The smoke disperses. Lee sits crouched down next to Cullen, hand still on Cullen’s throat. His mouth hangs open, and his eyes are full and round. I look over my shoulder at Anders, who clutches at the back of his head, knuckles whitening.

  


“What the fuck was that?” My shoulders almost touch my ears, I have to move my jaw from left to right to disperse cramp, and my fingers tingle with static energy.

  


“Not me, that’s for sure,” Lee says, his left hand pressed to his chest. His eyes roll back when he swallows once, twice, and I dive forward, knuckles chafing over the ground, eyes watering from the stinging burn on my skin. I end up haphazardly on the ground, half under Lee and half twisted to the side in an awkward angle to keep away from Cullen.

  


Crystalline beads sparkle in the air, surging and rippling as they whiz through the air in a cascade of silver, red, amber, royal iridescent blue, bright emerald green. They billow until they are roughly softball-sized, a brilliant, rainbow-tipped flame floating upright in their cores.

  


“Wisps. Those are whisps,” Anders whispers, dipping his hand into the level waterfall of wisps.

  


“Yeah, well,” Lee says, one hand on Cullen’s chest and the other hovering inches above his mouth. “Last time I heard about them, they were supposed to be the Maker’s firstborn children. As in first. As in Golden City residents.”

  
  


“Kggggggggg?”

  


Oh. Oh. I’m so fucked. I’m so, so fucked.

  


I spy the skies for Moth, neck pulled in and eyes wide, but Moth isn’t here. The sound ebbs and wanes from every direction, chasing goosebumps and electric tingles over my skin. My stomach churns, spiraling heavenward, heat glowing warm underneath my skin and in my fingertips.

  


“Kreeeeeeeee.”

  


Wide-eyed, I push myself to my feet and do a 360 on my tiptoes. Wisps in every imaginable color, shading, and freaking tie-die schemes perch on my shoulders and hair before being dragged away by an unseen tide.

  


“What are you saying, Lee?” Anders asks, shaking his head, a frown etched into his face.

  


As one, jagged limbs, wings and teeth cut through the wisps, followed by antennae with big bulbous eyes.  

  


No no no no no no.

  


“They’re straight from the Black City, is what I’m saying.” Lee shrugs and holds out his hand. A not-Moth in bright, foaming blues and whites perches on his palm, rests there for a few seconds, before taking wing and gliding around the corner.

  


Anders’s face goes blank. “I, uh, I think someone needs healing,” he says, making a vague gesture towards the bulk of Side Alley and all but twisting himself around the corner while he speaks.

  


The not-Moths glide through Side Alley, their wicked mouths opened wide.  Inside their mouth stretches cavernous darkness, spiderwebbed with flaming tendrils in pale blues, whites, dark blues, and indigos. Barely discernible flames dot the yawning abyss, a modest backdrop to rippling dust and swirling colors.

  


“Uhm, Lee?” I ask, my eyes tracing their multi-colored facets. “What does it mean when they’re in one color all over?”

  


Lee blinks, his brow furrowing and lips pressed together. He tilts his head to the side and steeples his fingers. Clearing his throat, he smirks at me. His voice fills the ally-way, ebbing and flowing, hooking itself into my core.

  


**_“_ ** _There was no word_

_For heaven or for earth, for sea or sky._

_All that existed was silence._

_Then the Voice of the Maker rang out,_

_The first Word,_

_And His Word became all that might be:_

_Dream and idea, hope and fear,_

_Endless possibilities._

_And from it made his firstborn._

_And he said to them:_

_"In My image I forge you,_

_To you I give dominion_

_Over all that exists.”_

  


His voice deepens, giving way to a thousand other rumbling voices.

 

**_“By your will_ **

**_May all things be done."_ **

  


_"World fell away then, misty in memory,_

_'Cross Veil and into the valley of dreams_

**_A vision of all worlds, waking and slumbering,_ **

**_Spirit and mortal to me appeared._ **

  


**_Sky-reaching mountains arrayed as a crown,_ **

**_Kingdoms like jewels, glistering gemstones_ **

**_Strung 'cross the earth as a necklace of pearl."_ **

  
  


Rising to his feet, he smiles. One step forward fades into a seamless reverence that lasts the merest of seconds. Then he straightens himself, cups one hand in the air and makes a motion as if scooping up water. Cullen rises from the ground as if carried by the wind. With a twist of Lee’s index finger, Cullen’s form follows him as he strides away from me, in the direction of the Clinic.

 

“Tell Anders I’ll see him in the Clinic,” There’s a grin in his gleeful voice. “Oh, hail, Andraste, Bride to the Maker.”

  


And with the swiftness and force of a thunderclap, the migraine returns to settle merrily behind my eyes.

  


Fuck you, Flemeth.

  


* * *

 

**New polls are open until the 5th of March:**

[ **I, Andraste** ](https://linkto.run/p/JSCDSFY9)

[ **Your Grimoire Or Your Life, Witch** ](https://linkto.run/p/QVYYJ0X0)

[ **Now We Fight, Once And For All** ](https://linkto.run/p/RURMFOZ6)

[ **To Moth Or Not To Moth?** ](https://linkto.run/p/4C2X4OWC)

[ **Stop Whining Start Hacking** ](https://linkto.run/p/BMAPYM5Y)


	33. Squish

**Poll results**

**Sorry, I'm keeping the Corpypheus poll results a secret until we reach the relevant chapter.**

 

[ **I, Andraste** ](https://i.imgur.com/CtOf7PK.png)

 

[ **Your Grimoire Or Your Life, Witch** ](https://i.imgur.com/fiVX2hP.png)

 

[ **To Moth Or Not To Moth?** ](https://i.imgur.com/vbhZ6go.png)

 

[ **Stop Whining Start Hacking** ](https://i.imgur.com/5gzatE8.png)

* * *

  
**Day 40 (25th of Cloudreach) 07:00 PM**

 

“Lee!” I shout after him.  “What the fuck?! That’s it? You’re just going to drop that bomb on me and leave?”

 

 

I still don’t know why Moth doesn’t sport Gay Pride colors, either.

 

 

No, wait. Moth would be pink if he did. My bad.

 

 

Over his shoulder, Lee blows me a kiss and rounds the corner.

 

 

My fingers are covered in blood in varying states of coalescing, pulling on skin starting to itch. Black ridges mar my fingernails, many of which are hooking and splintering. My pants are a portrait of madness, splattered with red, muddy brown and covered in a sickly green film. Saar-Gamek? Probably.

 

 

In the bottom part of my dentures, my seventh gives a dull throb. Great, Thedas’s lack of dental care catches up.  My old body didn’t have sevens. My orthodontist told me to get them removed, and so I had. Cue to instant ‘WTF’s’ from every dentist I’d gone to afterward. Ever. Because removing my sevens? It had been good for nothing. Yeah, for losing money.

 

 

That Mythal masqueraded as Andraste is much the same. It changes nothing, it gains me nothing, and it doesn’t upload the entire Chant of Light Redacted into my head, either. If anything, it’s good for an eye-roll and a big middle finger to the most honored and noble Bioware.

 

 

Fuck, I'm married.

 

 

Do I take this to the Chantry? ‘Yes, good to see you too, Elthina. How's the Cleric life going for ya? How am I? I'm great, considering I'm married to the greatest narcissist in the history of Thedas.’ Yeah, no.

 

 

Arranged Marriage helpline? ‘Hello, I’m married to some absentee bimbo who’s locked himself inside a city riddled with a potato disease, what is my first cause of action? No, I can’t get him institutionalized, he’s the literal Maker of All Things. Hello? Helloooo?’

 

 

That’s what blight is, y’know. A potato disease. In every world that isn’t Thedas, at least. Maybe I should funnel my attention into insecticides. Not that potato-blight is caused by insects. I narrow my eyes. Can you believe I went through the trouble of Googling potato-blight and retained zilch on how to combat it? Damn it.

 

 

Regular scouting was required to strip the infected parts away from y’olde croppes. Yadda yadda yadda don’t plant infected potatoes, which is a duh, but all in all, it’s similar to a regular ole’ Blight. Except people aren’t crawling around with blighted potatoes growing out of their extremities. Looking at you, Corypheus.

 

 

Heh, my sword would be one long-ass potato with leaves for guard and pommel. Lay your eyes on my sword, the master-forged Blighted Potato, and tremble in your boots. Wait, why are y’all laughing? Stop that! Fear me and my army of tainted Nightshades! The world will be covered in our moldiness!

 

 

“Huahaha-” I clap my hand over my mouth, tasting the tang of copper and iron. Oh God, I’ve gone off into the deep end. Clutching my shaking sides, I double over, tears blurring my vision. My facial muscles refuse to budge from their smirk. My left eye twitches and tears up. I clutch at my spasming stomach and cramping abdominal muscles.

 

 

My knees hit the floor, and I sit, the fingers of my left hand spread out in sticky red, right leg stretched toward my tailbone. I used to do Body Balance classes, where we'd do a swan pose. This is kind of like a swan pose.

 

 

More like an ugly, ruined duck pose.

 

 

Pulsating dots of red and yellow swirl intertwined, bearing shape to armored limbs, broad shoulders and a head of luscious blonde hair. A set of piercing blue eyes look down at me, thin blonde eyebrows come together in a worried frown.

 

 

Stannard is in Da House, everyone.

 

 

I lick my blood flecked teeth. My lips stick together, and I worry them to pull them loose, squinting through my hypersensitive vision. Dust on the mortar's rough grain on the wall behind her shrieks in my eyes. That's 4K Ultra HD.

 

 

Stannard slams a fist into her palm, red veins popping in the white of her eyes. Her mouth spits out mimed words, and I look left, right and over my shoulder. We're alone. I laugh. Silly games.

 

 

Hey, at least she's not trying to kill me. Again. Third time's the charm, right? In Dutch, we say ‘three times is ship's right.’ Comes from our trade history. The Netherlands was master of maritime trade. We had the VOC, the United Dutch East India Company.

 

 

“UDEIC. God, that sounds awful.” Though the words reverberate in my vocal cords, and I of all people know what that feels like, they come out distorted and tinny, as if I'm crystallizing words on a harp, but the envious wind steals them away.

 

 

Wait, what? The fuck, brains?

 

 

I stick out my neck and shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. Fading fingers of green smoke curl around themselves in their last throes of death. Did you know you can blink when your eyes are shut? I do it a couple of times, rubbing my fingers over gritty, wet sand.

 

 

Oh Maker, what I wouldn't give for some stimulating opiates to quiet my mind with. I'd probably end up as a hyperactive whirlwind, given that I'm in Meredith Stannard's body. Unless she has ADHD, too.

 

 

Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me.

 

 

Stannard rakes her fingers through her hair and paces back and forth, before whirling on me, shaking her fist in my direction. Her teeth chew on vicious, venomous words and spit them out word after word, but the high-pitched whistle in my ears shields me.

 

 

I shake my head and point to my ears, then lay the back of my hand against my forehead and close my eyes again. A hundred knives stab behind my left eyes, and I should really, really bang my head against the wall to see if it helps.

 

 

My trapezoids burn with tightness, and I tilt my head to the side, gritting my teeth against the hammer and anvil in my head. Pop, crackle, snap. The other side grinds. I work my jaw left to right until my jawbone pops.

 

 

Stannard pinches the bridge of her nose and shakes her head. I swallow against the lump in my throat and feel along the back of my teeth. My right front tooth was chipped. My sevens are gone. Why are there healthy, whole teeth in my mouth? Why do I have a migraine? The migraines are mine. The teeth belong to Stannard. Did I take my brain with me when I mind-hopped into her body? How else am I here and not a cremated pile of ash?

 

 

Stannard tramps to the wall and glances around the corner.

 

I lay my palms over my eyelids and gather icy coldness in them. The sting wrings tears from my eyes. I press one hand to my forehead. Blessed coldness radiates from my palm and spreads into my skin. Heavy footfalls bring Stannard back into my line of vision.

 

 

With thin blonde hairs sticking under her fingernails, Stannard points at me. I tilt my head to the side and raise my eyebrows. She taps her chest and describes a clockwise motion with her index finger. Her lips move. Tones ebb and wane, a high-pitched wail in my ears drowning everything out.

 

 

“Dexter,” she says.

 

 

… We’re going to cover Side Alley in plastic, dismember everyone with axes, stuff their limbs into bags and dump them in the sea?

 

I gape at her.

 

Stannard’s eyebrows and shoulders drop and harsh lines age the skin around her mouth.

 

 

“Dextral.” Her voice whips through the tinnitus in my ears, as she makes the clockwise motion again. Clockwise! She means clockwise! Oh God, simple lives here. It’s not like Kirkwall needs another serial killer. Even if they’d kill serial killers. Maybe they can kill each other and be done with it.

 

 

I slap the bridge of my nose and cover my eyes with a hand, groaning in embarrassment. Through my fingers, Stannard gives a short nod, before she points at me and describes a counterclockwise circle.

 

 

And how exactly does she suggest we sneak up on Maker-knows-who on the other side of the alley? I straighten my spine and throw my hands into the air, jutting out my chin.

 

 

“What are we in for? Why on earth would you need my help, oh great Knight-Commander?” I demand, pushing myself up on my feet.

 

 

Dryly, Stannard replies: “Two Saarebas.”

 

 

“Argh. Fuck you, Maker!” I say, flipping off the sky with two hands. I pump them in the air for good measure.

 

 

The night sky stares back at me, sprinkled with white and yellow stars great and small.

 

 

"How vulgar of you to insult our Maker," Stannard says. 

 

 

The Maker doesn't seem to care. 

 

 

“Okay, good, let’s do this,” I tell Stannard. She nods, before rounding the corner.

 

 

I stare at the brick wall.

 

 

Fuck. Was I supposed to go clockwise or counter-clockwise?

 

 

How is she even going to fight a Saarebas, incorporeal as she is?

 

 

How am I going to fight a Saarebas, corporeal and squishy as I am?

 

 

With a sigh, I push myself off from the wall, rounding the corner, and creep forward counter-clockwise. Opposite me, Stannard goes in the same direction as me. And lo and behold, there they are. Two Saarebas, one sewn-mouthed and stitch-eyed. A Kossith stands next to them, triceps protected by a wide cuff, biceps left bare, belts crisscrossing on his chest and his face veiled by a curving mask curling into horns at the crown of his head. In his left hand, he holds a spear. In his right, a scepter topped in gold, a stylized face at the top, crowned by a pair of golden horns.

 

 

“Yes, good idea, grab his staff! We can use the Saarebas against him!” Stannard cries.

 

 

It’s inches from my eyes, my fingers curl around the golden surface and tug. The Arvaraad shouts at me in Qunlat, and I break his nose with a well-aimed elbow. I guess his mask isn’t made out of hard material. Why would it be, if he has mages at his command?

 

 

“Basra!” He spits at me, blood smearing his lips. Hey now, no need to insult me like that. “You won’t take them. Your Bass are not strong people. They will fail and suffer for it.”  His spear is too close to jab at me. Idiot. The gold heats under my touch. He thinks I’m trying to take the thing from him. I send blue flames through it instead.

 

 

Waxen gold pools over my fingers, oddly cold to the touch. From my hands, it dribbles into a puddle around my feet, and I make my hasty retreat. The Arvaraad tries to follow me. His boots refuse to budge, and he looks down, scowling. His own ashen reflection looks up at him from a mirror of spilled gold.

 

 

“Freedom to slaves!" I shout at the Saarebas. The one without sewn lips and stitched eyes grunts, regarding me with steeled eyes. I cock my head to the side and smirk at him. His lips pull up into an answering grin. His enormous hand folds itself around the Arvaraad’s head, the Arvaraad drops his spear and flails around, his arms spasming and jerking as Saarebas’s grip tightens. With a great crunch and squish, the Arvaraad’s skull shatters, blood splattering out from Saarebas’s fingers.

 

 

Helloooo, Squish.

 

 

Sowneyes sets himself on fire.

 

 

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Put that out! Put him out!” I shout, throwing myself away from the blistering heat and blinding flames. An aureola of orange blossoms against my eyelids when I close them and prod at my cheeks, where the skin has pulled taut and, blisters already bleed.

 

 

“You idiot! You’ll get us all killed! You set loose a monster!” Stannard howls over the crackling flames. Squish’s eyes snap in her direction, and with one meaty arm, he tosses the dead Arvaraad to her. With flailing, bending limbs, it drops right through her and hits the ground with a wet sound.

 

 

“Eath, youonofightedspwn!” Stannard raves with madly rolling eyes, making a shoving gesture at me while her form fades away.

 

 

“Bah,” Squish says. “The Basala-Taar makes too many sounds.”

 

 

“What did you say just now?” I stare at him with big, round eyes. He meets my stare, his brows furrowed and his eyes distant. His shoulders rise and drop.

 

 

“It is Basala-Taar, the twisted shade of what was once a soul,” he says matter-of-factly, gazing down at me. In the background, Sowneyes collapses in a smoldering heap. I cringe.

 

 

“It has named you Basalit-an, for it to walk in your footsteps.”

 

 

Fuck. All this time I dragged Stannard along with me like an unwilling puppeteer, unable to cut her strings, and all I had to do was walk into the Qunari compound and ask to see one of their Saarebas. Or Arvaraad’s.

 

 

Oh well, different method, same result.

 

 

“Eh, okay. I’m sorry about… about…” A vague wave in Sowneye’s direction. Squish shrugs and grunts.

 

 

“She was of the Qun. I… am Tal-Vashoth.” He averts his eyes at that, a wry smile on his lips.

 

 

Huh. Sowneyes is a girl. 

 

 

Ashes dance in the receding heat. 

 

 

Uh. She was a girl. I should probably feel worse about this.

 

 

I pat his arm, which is almost like patting a lukewarm ham with the circumference of a wine cask, and he shifts away at my touch, tugging at a collar around his neck. It doesn’t budge. My eye twitches while I stare at it.  

 

 

It’s a mobile magic-blocking device.

 

 

It’s an answer to the question I don’t want to see raised.

 

 

‘Can we cut mages off from the Fade without making them Tranquil?’

 

 

 Nope. No. Nada. Nil. Nay. We most definitely can’t. Lalalala.

 

 

None of them will listen, anyway. The Chantry can keep spouting its lies, but we all know the truth: Tranquil are nothing more than employers without a payroll. Divine Beatrice, or Beatrix or whatever her name is, is too busy drooling on herself to make a difference for the mages or the Tranquil, and the puppet master Templars ruling from the shadows would see me dead before they announce to the world that Tranquility is entirely unnecessary and cruel.

 

None of them will hear Meredith Stannard.

 

 

All of them will hear the Prophet who made the rules in the first place. Eventually.

 

* * *

 

**Polls are open until March 10th**

 

[ **The Antivan Crows have taken on a contract against Merethilda. What is the Crow's M.O.?** ](https://linkto.run/p/Z006WH5F)

 

[ **Two people from outside the (Kirkwall) Circle seek contact. Who?** ](https://linkto.run/p/TFCARJ5H)

 

[ **The Qunari managed to craft collars that block a mage's connection the Fade without cutting them off from their emotions. Does Merethilda order her Tranquil enchanters to uncover the collar's secrets?** ](https://linkto.run/p/G3W2V5K7)

 

[ **Do the Aequitarians inform the Seekers about Merethilda's strange behavior?** ](https://linkto.run/p/JSGDXFY9)

 

[ **Do the Aequitarians inform the Seekers about Hawke?** ](https://linkto.run/p/EWHBFS7B)

 

[ **Merethilda will lock herself inside to avoid more Kirkwall drama. Where?** ](https://linkto.run/p/TQNDCWP8)

 

[ **Say Squish?** ](https://linkto.run/p/I3W2V5K7)

 

[ **Merethilda again locks herself inside to avoid more Kirkwall drama. Where?** ](https://linkto.run/p/UPBKQ8DD)

 

[ **Merethilda breaks Carver out of his Forgotten Little Brother trope. How?** ](https://linkto.run/p/BG7BJ43A)

 

**[What color does a Foci made by Mythal have?](https://linkto.run/p/N3W2V5K7) **


	34. Hypertension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah. I'm so sorry for dragging one quest out over four chapters. There's just so much that requires covering!
> 
> On a brighter note: I use Grammarly for editing. When I first wrote chapters 1 - 7, Grammarly had around 41 suggestions for me to edit.  
> On the last few chapters, it had 5. Fan-fucking-tastic.

**Poll results (the blank space between them accommodates phone users, if you wondered):**

  


[ **Antivan Crows** ](https://i.imgur.com/Eh894gl.png)

 

[ **Two people from outside the (Kirkwall) Circle** ](https://i.imgur.com/gGJ1CT8.png)

 

[ **Collars** ](https://i.imgur.com/iwUVO2r.png)

 

[ **Aequitarians: Merethilda** ](https://i.imgur.com/Z7nybgZ.png)

 

[ **Aequitarians: Hawke** ](https://i.imgur.com/VjA2dH3.png)

 

[ **Locked inside: I** ](https://i.imgur.com/qQWDaiC.png)

  


[ **Locked inside: II** ](https://i.imgur.com/R03zOwb.png)

 

[ **Squish** ](https://i.imgur.com/ENPGpo6.png)

 

[ **Forgotten Little Brother** ](https://i.imgur.com/xRHm36A.png)

 

[ **Foci** ](https://linkto.run/p/N3W2V5K7)

* * *

  
  
**Day 41 (26th of Cloudreach) 06:00 AM**

 

Cast in the sickly green of the Fade, I view my dream self from above. Smoke rises in thick columns from shattered statues and scattered debris. Dream’s greasy coup de disaster sticks every which way, her knotted bangs falling over her eyes and cheekbones. Her leather jacket flakes where it reaches her collarbone, fading around her elbows. The black jeans she wears are worn and graying, buttons are gone, and there’s a hole on her bottoms.  The outsides of her blue boots, just above the soles on the right side, have worn away to the inside layer.

  


Dream holds a hand above her eyes, squinting in the distance. The Black City looms, fenced in by thick walls still standing despite crumbling away. One black tower casts out toward the heavens, flanked by two smaller ones. Dream tilts her head to the side-

  


**ROOOAAWR!**

  


And dashes toward the nearest ominous statue, disappearing behind it. A Pride Demon all but steps through an icon at her near right, stones shattering and crumbling beneath its weight. It’s six glowing red eyes look up at me, the silent witness of this dream, and it pounds itself on its scarred chest.

  


Uh, ‘kay. Good thing I’m floating above everything, like camera mode.

  


Camera mode…

  


The demon’s left horn smashes against Dream’s hiding place. Dream scurries out of the path of the debris and sets her foot against the foot of the statue, places her hands on a ridge at shoulder level and pulls herself up. Pride ignores the destruction it has caused in favor of gaping up at little old me.

  


What do I look like? A floating person? A light? A fishing net laid over the non-existent ceiling of the Fade? Can I move my vision?

  


Dream’s leather jacket creaks and flakes some more as she pulls herself up on a ledge. Why does the statue have a ridge? It’s one of those winged angels kind of thing, except it has a snake tail and the wings are more angular than they should be. More than enough crevices and ledges in the Fade’s odd design, though. Or maybe Dream shapes them with her thoughts, who knows? She does find the convenient spots a little too easily… And I’m looking at her from behind, instead of from above.

 

From the ground up, Pride is a lot bigger. He’s shaking his head, crumbles of black marble rolling off its horns. One of the bigger rocks comes to a halt right in front of me, and Pride whirls around.

  


And stares.

  


Just stares.

  


It’s ominous, indeed.

  


My vision shifts until Dream’s statue is back into focus and turns again to give me an upward view. Dream has reached the top of the figure, draped haphazardly over the thing’s black marble horns, one hand above her eyes. The wind whips hair into her eyes and mouth, and she slaps it out of her face with scrunched up lips and squinted eyes.

  


Yeah, I had the same idea. Except we’re dreaming now, so don’t bother, it’s not like the Black City isn’t being carried away by an army of black ants every time we take a step.

  


Did you know that ants can lift up to 1,000 times their weight? I bet a colony would be large enough to move the Black City around, albeit in ant-sized pieces, but they could.

  


So… is that what Jesus meant when he said faith could move mountains? Termite mounts? Hehehe.

  


Dream wrinkles her nose, rubs her lips together, scrunches up her face and sneezes.

  


“Gesundheit,” I say dryly. She sneezes again, rubs underneath her nose and narrows her eyes.

  


“Yeah, fluff will do that to ya.” When I rented my own place, my mother told me not to buy a double bed because it might not fit into my next apartment. My Dad had thrown his hands up in the air and said with emphasis on every word: “Then you don’t take the apartment with a closet for a bedroom.”

  


A downgrade would’ve been inevitable. My autism got me an apartment with an organization providing counseling and assistance to people with autism, who were high functioning but not yet able to live on their own without support. It meant I could rent in the city center and still get community rent subsidy. Don’t look at me like that, almost everyone with basic income could get rent subsidies. I’m not a moocher. Or maybe we were all moochers.

  


Anyway, back to the downgrade. Most landlords in the city required one to earn 3.5 or 4 times the rent in gross income. In practice, this meant I should’ve earned a whopping EUR2,9000 a month, which I did not, and could’ve rented something starting at EUR457 a month, which would’ve been nothing more than a bedroom with a shared kitchen, bathroom and living room.

  


It’s tough to do that once you’ve had everything to yourself for two years. Especially when you have autism and ADHD. It just felt unfair. Not a day passed without me thinking about it.

  


I’m not sure about the conversion, but euro to Thedosian sovereign is probably… 1:10? 10 sovereigns can buy one a flock of sheep, rams, goats. 50 sovereigns can buy one a house in Darktown, 150 sovereigns can buy one a home in Lowtown, and 300 sovereigns can buy one a mansion.

  


Thrask dispersed my money over Anders, Elsa, and Niana, so I have a measly 20 sovereigns to my name until the Chantry churns out my monthly allowance. Anders obviously put his share into the clinic and Elsa and Niana have not touched theirs. I might have to look into investing it for them.

  


A traders fleet would be fun to have. Or real estate. If I present my plan well, Elthina might be willing to invest Chantry money in Darktown. I have ten years until Corypheus opens a gaping hole in the sky, that’s plenty and then some to buy every home in Darktown, have it demolished, and building a sturdier well-insulated house in its place.

  


Where I’m from, the jobless could apply for welfare. They’d be required to take any job offered to them, any position, and if you were unlucky enough to land a monitor who did not believe in psychological illness, you could be forced to take that call center job with inhumane targets, ice cold managing, and competitive colleagues. If you got interviews but never got hired, they’d narrow their eyes at you first and the HR department last. God forbid you were iffy about a five-hour commute to and from work, either. And ooooh, the letter you’d get if you applied for welfare was the best. It was so stern as if we all wanted to twiddle our thumbs every day and be cut off from society.

  


Because that’s what happens when you lose your job: you get cut off. Welfare isn’t enough for activities with friends, and eating or going out is a thing of the past. Eventually, you’ll have to decide between fixing your bicycle or buying bread. There’s no money to do both. Even a five euro ticket for the bus is too much, so you’ll have to beg for compensation from your interviewer, which does not make you look good. Mostly. Sometimes an interviewer will be glad you ask because asking for your rights is a capacity they like in people.

  


Kirkwall is not going to end up like that. If I want to install a welfare system, I’ll need to raise taxes, raising taxes will raise prices, raising prices will do nothing to lower the demand and in the end, the rich get richer (and evade taxes in every way under the sun) while the poor get poorer.

  


Instead, I’ll create jobs. How, you ask?

  


There are more than enough Tranquil in the Gallows, with more than enough skills, to teach every single inhabitant of Darktown a trade or skill each.

  


Dreamer sneezes again, and I’m flung around until I sneeze in real life, wrap my hand around the offending object under my nose, and all but rip it to shreds. Or I would’ve, had it not been a feather from Anders’s coat and had his hand not been wrapped around it tightly.

  


“Hey,” he says, his lips curled up into a shit-eating grin. I groan, rub my eyes and drag my fingers through my knotted hair. Right. I fell asleep on one of the cots in the clinic. My arms, wrists, shoulders, back, legs, and abdomen ache with fatigue. In other words: everything hurts. Except for my head. Thank you, Anders. Oh, what am I saying? I’d thank bloody Lucifer if he got rid of my headache.

  


“How is he?” I ask, and Anders’s lips tug down into a pout, his eyes softening.

  


“Fever,” Anders’s eyes flit away to stare over my head. “Gangrene on the arm. It should be bled and stripped, but Lee’s… whatever it is Lee did, needs time to settle. Cullen is strong. There’s a good chance he can keep the arm if we keep the infection from spreading.”

  


“That’s good.” I’d give my own arm if it got Cullen antibiotics. “And if we don’t?”

  


Anders’s eyebrows furrow down, his lips curl back into a grimace, and he fiddles with the fabric of his robes. “If we don’t… we’ll have to remove the arm and- Oh Maker, I’ve never done this before.” His face is ashen, his eyes and pupils are blown wide. He shakes his head, rakes his fingers through his hair and breathes out in a huffed chuckle.

  


I gape at him. “You’ve never… amputated a limb?”

  


White-coat hypertension +1,000,000.

  


He shakes his head, worrying his bottom lip. “Usually, if it comes to that, in Thedas… They’re as good as dead. I tried it once and… I didn’t have the equipment necessary to… there was so much blood… so much…”

  


Anders’s stare is distant, his robes knotted around his white-knuckled hands. He blinks several times and breathes out slowly through his nose.

  


“Sit down,” I tell him, sliding off the cot and putting a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t reply. I guide him forward, spin him around and push on his shoulders until he sits, his eyes still staring through me. He coughs once, twice, and slumps his shoulders.

  


“Thirsty,” he mutters, peering down at his trembling fingers. He raises them up to his face as if they’re some curious new thing. I sigh and rub my forehead.

  


“You’re going into shock.” I wrap the sheet around him and tilt my head to the side, sucking in my bottom lip. “Don’t ask me why, but you’re not supposed to drink anything when you’re in shock.”

  


What else? God damn it, Grethilda, think. You Googled it when that old man on his bike fell on his face in your grandmother’s street, and passersby had been bickering about what to do. Plus, it was in all your car theory books when you studied for your driver's license.

  


“Are you cold?”

  


Anders doesn’t reply, staring blankly ahead. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! Anders, you’re the bloody doctor here! You have patients! God!

  


“Lee!” I shout.

  


“On it!” Lee shouts back. He’s closer to the back of the clinic, while Anders and I are to the front, where the most critical patients are. It’s not fun for the mildly injured to walk past the dying and critical, but speed is of the essence. Someone could die in the time it takes to carry them to a bed further down.

  


His green eyes narrow when he takes in Anders, who’s taken to muttering to himself. Things about cats and demons and mousers, and I take his hand and squeeze it.

  


“You’re okay. You’re safe here. Any demon will have to go through me first, and Lee second, and no-one’s getting through Lee anytime soon.” Lee winks at me and takes Anders’s other arm, pressing his thumb against Anders’s wrist.

  


“You’re good at this,” we both say at the same time. Lee smirks and holds up a hand to still me, counting under his breath. Satisfied, he places Anders’s hand in his lap and gives it a pat.

  


“He forgets to hydrate when he’s like this, tending to patients,” Lee says with a shrug. “Plus he hasn’t slept since that blasted alley of yours.”

  


I narrow my eyes. “And what can we do about that, Doc?”

  


I rub my thumb over the back of his calloused hand, calloused from holding his staff, knotting fabric into tourniquets, filling buckets with water and soup and from plucking medicinal herbs.

  


Lee tilts his head to the side. “You, my Lady, are staying here. I’ll make some broth, find some bread, and you’ll both eat something. The only patient Anders will be tending to is himself, and I’ll find some big burly lumberjack to walk you back to the Gallows.”

  


“If we’re going to wait until Blackwall arrives, I’ll be here for a while yet.” Sarcasm thickens my tongue, or maybe it’s fatigue, and Lee frowns at me.

  


“I can set you up with some lyrium bombs if you- ah, I said that, didn’t I?

  


I drop my head into my hands. “Jesus, take the wheel.”

* * *

 

**New polls:**

 

[ **A lot of text with this one. Fade insurgency poll, the Hippocratic Oath, Merethilda's hardening mechanism** ](https://linkto.run/p/IUQ7WKJX)

  


[ **Hawke's sentence** ](https://linkto.run/p/PID65M6E)

  


[ **Who stops Hawke's sentence from being carried out?** ](https://linkto.run/p/T7CB6J5H)

  


[ **Cullen's merge with Wynne's Spirit of Faith** ](https://linkto.run/p/RM5MFQZ6)

  


[ **How To Hunt Your Dragon** ](https://linkto.run/p/0H2HE1BI)


	35. Loki

**Poll results:**

 

**[Hippocratic Oath](https://i.imgur.com/QTyEpdm.png) **

 

[ **Hawke's sentence** ](https://i.imgur.com/hZGBcCz.png)

 

[ **Seekervention** ](https://i.imgur.com/409uZWz.png)

 

[ **Faith** ](https://i.imgur.com/lLT6ZeC.png)

 

[ **How To Hunt Your Dragon** ](https://i.imgur.com/KGjne7l.png)

 

* * *

 

**TRIGGER WARNING** **:** **EXTREMELY SENSITIVE SEXUAL ASSAULT CONTENT** **ahead. To skip, CTRL + F** Acid burns in the back of my throat **when you’ve reached** **the asterisks (*)** **. If you yourself, or someone in your social life has been sexually assaulted or harassed: SKIP IT.**

**Merethilda falsely believes her body’s response means she consents to the assault. Along with physical response, there are other reasons for her to believe this.** **Rape is rape, no matter how someone’s body reacts.**

 **WARNING: This piece contains frank and graphic descriptions of sexual assault and rape that some readers may find upsetting:** [Research on the self-lubrication reaction of victims. ](https://www.cosmopolitan.com/uk/reports/a9620593/sexual-assault-rape-lubrication-reaction-research/)

 

Bible verse **1 Corinthians 10:20-21** is recited in the NSFW content.

 

_You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons too; you cannot have a part in both the Lord’s table and the table of demons._

 

* * *

 

**Day 41 (26th of Cloudreach) 06:30 AM**

 

Lee’s oh so terrifying lyrium bombs are the size of a marble, and I don’t mean the big ones you’d clunk your nephew on the side of the head for. They’re six millimeters in diameter and keep slipping through my fingers, but that’s okay. They’re only primed when bounced on organic material. More flash and bang than fire and mass destruction, anyway.

 

Thank you, Husband in the sky. Er, Black City. Whatever.

 

Oh, and Jesus. For... taking the wheel, I guess.

 

I should’ve asked Lee for a net or a bag or something to keep them in, but for now, they’re clutched tightly in the palms of my hands.

 

Also, my non-ADHD brain finally buckles under all the stress, because tinnitus’s blaring hum is back in my ears and my skull vibrates a la revenge of the monastery gong.

 

Stepping into the docks at Lowtown, a scrap of bright orange fabric ripples in the wind, in my peripheral vision. I bounce as many marbles on my hands as I can and fling them toward whatever is there. Three black and gray robed Tevinters throw themselves out of the shadows and away from the lyrium bombs, which are vibrating in place.

 

“Venhedis!”

“Kaffas!”

“Fasta vass!”

 

One is a woman with crimson red embroidery worked into her cuffs, a dark auburn lock falling in front of her gray eyes. Her skin is smooth, and her cheeks dimple when she smiles at me, baring clean white teeth. No wrinkle lines. Youthful. Her fingers drip red with blood from a gash on her arm. She can’t be older than sixteen.

 

The pink iridescent marbles buzz and rock back and forth, ripples of dark energy shooting through them from within. A faint pink ripple touches the edges and the inner color changes to the same dark purple. An aubergine hue ripples out.

 

God damn it, Lee, did you have to make delayed lyrium bombs? What good are they?

 

The other Vint is graying at the temples and retreats to the shadows, a thick Tevene volume in his hands. He chants in a low, monotone voice, more mumbles than chant. Columns of red energy rise from the ground around him.

 

Spellbinder. Venatori. Damn.

 

The other Vint vanished in thin air. Ruby red tendrils slither and slide over each other on the ground around my feet, the outer circle going clockwise and the inner circle going counter-clockwise. Both move in intervals of seconds, in jerky movements emphasized by clicking sounds.

 

Ahh…

 

I close my eyes and shove my fingers into my hands. Do the unconventional. Scare them out of their minds.

 

In a tumbling veil of red, yellow and steel, Stannard materializes next to me. I glance at her out of the corner of my eyes and quirk an eyebrow. Scowling, she sets her jaws.

 

“Repeat after me…” Her tone is even and drips with venom. I guess we have something in common after all. A hatred for murder-happy Vints.

 

I stretch my hands to the skies above, square my shoulders, straighten my spine, and narrow my eyes at the Vints.

 

 

“Those who oppose thee

Shall know the wrath of heaven.

Field and forest shall burn,

The seas shall rise and devour them,

The wind shall tear their nations

From the face of the earth,

Lightning shall rain down from the sky,

They shall cry out to their false gods,

And find silence.”

 

In my peripheral, Stannard’s face catches the rising sun as she looks up through squinted eyes. The sky remains clear blue, not even a wisp of clouds above our heads. Air shudders at my right as if heat rises in the cold mist. A cloaked rogue.

 

“The Maker never did answer to me. Or any of us. Such fools we were to pray to someone who never answered.” Stannard’s shoulders slump, and she grits her teeth, curling her hands into fists.

 

The woman laughs. “Fancy yourself Andraste, bitch?”

 

The words ‘I am Andraste’ are on the tip of my tongue. Ha! Ominous voice: I Am Runner Five.

 

We can still make them believe the Maker gives a damn. It’s easy. Something with fire will do it.

 

Stannard straightens her spine and squares her shoulders, giving the oblivious Vints her trademark Glare. If only her eyes could spit fire.

 

 

“The Archon stood upon the dais and declared:

"Today, I end this war!" And by will alone

Drew fire from air and set the pyre aflame.”

 

 

Blue sparks fly from my fingertips before my hands are coated in blue flame, lyrium blue at the edges and indigo blue at heart. The woman’s laugh is wrangled from her throat, and her jaws snap shut with an audible click of her teeth.

 

The Vint narrows her eyes and sets her jaw, and the sigil around me snaps into place and scorches the ground with fiery tongues. I fold my hands in ‘prayer.’ The spellbinder’s chant stutters into silence. Heh. The corners of my mouth itch and curl into the smallest smile I can manage.

 

Pressing my hands to my chest in would-be devotion I wreath myself in blue fire. Stannard inhales to give me the next verse...

 

**_MOTHER OF DRAGONS! THE UNBURNT!_ **

 

… and practically chokes on air.

 

“For the love of the Maker, woman, what the fuck?!” she snaps at me. I shrug.

 

Ahem, sorry ‘bout that. Couldn’t help myself. I mean, who could? I’m on fire, for fuck’s sake! Nevermind my trembling, bone-cold muscles. Nothing to see here, do move on, please.

 

“Though the fire enveloped her like a shroud and the heat from the blaze

Reached across the field, Andraste was silent and did not cry out.

And the legionnaires who stood guard nearby

Were shaken, and began to whisper among themselves:

‘Is she truly the servant of a god?’”

 

 

The spellbinder drops his book and runs away flailing and shrieking. I bite my tongue to keep back the laughter itching in my chest. The girl twists her fingers, and the sigil on the ground disperses into loose runes and fragments of red, before dissipating entirely. Not sparing a glance to her cloaked companion, she loops around me in a frenzied run and disappears around the corner, presumably hopping on the first ship in sight.

 

Hopefully, it goes straight to Par Vollen. Or Weisshaupt. Or the Hissing Wastes.

 

The rogue snaps into view with the sound of a whip, his eyes blown open and his jaw slack. Sweat drips from his pale brow. I raise my eyebrows at him, shrouded in blue flame.

 

“Ah, Most Holy, Your Worship, I’m just going to go… I have other matters to attend… please, I’ll do better I’ll… Ah, I’ll join the monastery and- and- and, oh, flames-” His feet pound the cracked ground, and he’s out of my sight in little more than a heartbeat, leaving his pack abandoned at my feet.

 

I laugh, clutching at my stomach, while my muscles tremble from exertion. The blue flames sputter out and leave me faintly cold. I blow hot air into my fingers and rub them together, but the heat fades away as soon as I stop rubbing. Cold throbs against my skin and my teeth chatter. My tongue, dry as parchment, sticks to the roof of my mind and I work it free and drag it across my chapped lips.

 

Stannard chuckles and lifts her middle finger to nothing in particular. I laugh and press my hand to my throat when it constricts in protest, dry as sandpaper.

 

Great, now I’m going into shock.

 

Angling my head backward, I squint at the sky. “Thanks for nothing. Ugh.”

 

“We should do something about your inability to defend yourself.” Stannard regards me with her head tilted to the side, a frown creasing her brow. Even contemplative, she suffers from Resting Bitchface Syndrome.

 

Why? I’m getting by just fine, as you can see.

 

Stannard barks a laugh and shakes her head, hands on her hips. “At least memorize the Chant. Your memory is pathetic.”

 

It’s called ADHD. I have zero working memory.

 

“Pathetic excuses,” she mutters, her nostrils flaring. Crouching down, she fishes the Vint’s pack closer to her by its strap.

 

I’ve heard that before. Can’t hurt me by attacking my executive functioning. Sorry.

 

“Bwuh!” Stannard shouts, color draining from her face, her hair veiling across her cheeks as she jumps back.

 

What? What?!

 

“Something moved,” she says, clutching at her heaving chest.

 

Please die from a heart attack.

 

She rolls her eyes.

 

I lift my foot and toe the Vint’s druffalo hide pack. Poor druffalo. At least one was probably enough for ten, if not twenty of these. A soft, skeleton-thin thing shifts inside. The rucksack topples over, its flap coming undone. A muffled ‘mew’ declares protest against its manhandling.

 

I stare at the pack, while the bulge inside wriggles around until two furred bat ears stick out and a pair of yellow-rimmed black eyes stare at me from a feline face, two stripes going from eye to cheek accentuating the eyes like kohl. A pink button nose twitches and the cat sneezes once, its right ear flapping in disdain.

 

“It’s just a kitten,” I say out loud. “It’s oki-doki-loki.” Silence. I frown and look up at empty space. Huh. Stannard fell through the floor in embarrassment, I guess.

 

“Hey, hello there…” My knees hit the ground, and I reach out my hand, palm up, and index finger extended. In a cloud of white tuft, the cat’s glossy black lips part, baring a set of razor-sharp teeth. A pathetically doubtful high-pitched hiss comes out of his mouth. I wiggle my index finger. The cat sniffs at it. His or her yellow, black-dotted tail swishes back and forth on the ground, before rising in the air. The base fluffs out, the back and length remain flat.

 

???

 

“Ah, okay…” The cat purrs and rubs its cheek against my fingers, paw pads kneading the ground. The weird tail is a good sign, then.

 

I scratch behind its air get its butt shoved into my hand as a reward, so I rub along its sides with my fingers. Spike always liked being scratched there and would push you on your butt if you dared to stop giving him affection. This little cat - well, little is an overstatement, as it’s the size of… ah. Let’s just say it reaches up to my thighs when I’m on my knees, m’kay? So it’s not really a kitty anymore.

 

Except it bears a striking resemblance to a Savannah Cat, to the point where the back of my neck prickles with unease. If it is the Thedosian equivalent of a Savannah Cat, half wild Serval, half domestic house-garden-kitchen brand, it’s a kitty.

 

“Come on, sweety, come on.” Ugh. I always ridiculed my mother for using baby talk to our cat. Now I’m doing the same damn thing. Smh cats.

 

Anders is going to be so fucking jealous. I make idiotic little kissing noises with my lips and click my tongue against my teeth when I walk away, curling my index finger back and forth.

 

The cat trots after me with smooth bends of its light legs. It’s like a miniature cheetah, really. OMG. I should write a thank-you note to those Vints.

 

_“Thank you very much for the cat._

_Love, Andraste & Loki.” _

 

Yeah, they’ll love that. I should make Christmas cards. Satinalia. Or whatever passes for Christmas around these parts. Marchers are weird.

 

Carver, who’s on ferry duty, gapes at me when I hop into the boat, lean my arms against the docks and allow Loki to pad over them and into the boat. He, or she, jumps on my lap, kneads my leather jacket and curls up, purring with contentment.

 

“Stole it from a bunch of Vints.” I shrug, and Carver mutters something under his breath, grabs the paddle and pauses, straightening as if someone pulled his strings taut.

 

“Isabela!” he shouts, waving both arms. The boat rocks back and forth, and I grab the sides in a white-knuckled grip.

 

“Carver!” Isabela replies with mock-enthusiasm, slipping into the boat next to me, amber eyes wide and teeth flashing.

 

She wraps her arm around my shoulder and gives me squeeze. “Carver here went through all the trouble to fetch me a ship in a bottle. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

 

Don’t ask me how Isabela manages to make ‘sweetheart’ sound like men’s version of ‘slut.’

 

Carver’s cheeks take on a bright red hue, and Isabela grins, uncorking a flask and taking a gulp. She drags her wrist over her mouth, offers me the flask, and holds it out to Carver when I scrunch up my face and shake my head. Carver drinks for several seconds and shudders, coughing and wheezing. Isabela stretches her arms above her head, trembling with shrieking laughter. His ears flush red.

  
\---

**Day 41 (26th of Cloudreach) 06:45 AM**

 

“Thank the Maker.” A glimpse of wavy gray hair, elven ears and flapping robes and I’m crushed into a hug, the crown of Orsino’s head pressing against my chin. The soles of my feet burn, the skin of my arms and legs crawl with acid, my fingers itch to scratch my skin off my flesh.

 

Let go of me let go of me.

 

I chuckle and wrap my arms around him, giving him a pat. Loki’s lamenting mewls break the silence. She sits, staring up at us with her chin held high and her tail swishing back and forth.

 

Orsino’s eyes brighten, and he smiles, sinking through his knees into a crouch. Loki sniffs his fingers and rewards his gallantry by nuzzling his knuckles with her cheeks, left and right in quick succession.

 

“Oh, good, you like cats.” I wrap my arms around myself and suppress a shiver, curling my fingers inward in a futile quest for warmth.

 

“That I do,” he says, scratching Loki behind both ears. Her sides vibrate with purrs. “They’re intelligent, independent and they only give affection to those who’ve earned it.”

 

Smirking, my eyes wrinkle with mirth. “Now you just sound like Anders. My second favorite person on Thedas.”

 

Frowning, Orsino looks up at me. “Who’s the first?”

 

“The Hero of Ferelden.”

 

The corners of his lips drop, the wrinkles around his eyes disappear. Dusting off his robes, he rises to his feet.

 

“The Grey Wardens,” he says evenly. “You seem very taken in with them.”

 

“Excuse me?” I ask, blinking in surprise. Orsino sighs an exasperated little sigh that’s barely audible, and shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

“I…” Breathing in deeply, he takes a step back and gestures at me. “What do you think will happen when the remaining Archdemons have risen?”

 

Evanuris. Evanuris will happen. My tongue curls into an ‘e.’ I shake my head and huff out a breath.

 

“Taint-wise?”

 

He nods, eyeing me silently.

 

I whistle and look up at the sky. “I suppose the Darkspawn will claw their way out of the Deep Roads to follow him- er, the Archdemon, that is.”

 

Orsino nods and crosses his arms over his chest. “And when the Archdemons are gone? Provided Thedas hasn’t been reduced to ashes.” He grimaces. Yeah.

 

“No hoping they’ll all just go away.” I shrug. “So the Grey Wardens would have to clear out all the Darkspawn and… I don’t know, burn all things Tainted, I guess. Sooo… the world’s still going to be ashes? Not something to look forward to.”

 

“A burning world no matter what…” Orsino mutters to himself, staring at his bare toes.

 

Yikes. The back of my neck prickles, my fingertips tingle, my throat constricts. Phantom fire licks at the soles of my feet, the ground lurches, chains pull at my wrists. Smoke and acid sting my throat and lungs. I blow out air through my nose, breathe in through my mouth, and stare straight ahead. Scratching at the faint scars on my wrists, I turn my hands up and down to stare at the holes in my palms.

 

Orsino raises his eyes and frowns. “Are you all right?”

 

I shrug. “Just bad memories. I should probably do something about my memory loss.” The memories are liable to return at the worst possible moment, because why wouldn’t they? Cracking under stress, during a great battle, well, it’s best to wrestle with difficult things while I’m relatively safe, right?

 

“I might know something.” Orsino tilts his head the side, a frown creasing his thin eyebrows together. They’re lighter than his hair. His moss green eyes are eerily silent. Ah, don’t ask me how eyes can convey silence. I don’t know either.

 

“Does it involve you worming your way through my mind?” I ask dryly. He flinches, eyes squeezed shut and lips pressing together.

 

Humorous sarcasm. It was just a joke. Shit.

 

I reach out for him, but he takes another step back and shakes his head, lips lifted into a half-smile. His gaze has turned to stone. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Apologies, Knight-Commander. I suggest catching a few hours of sleep. If my suggestions are welcome, that is.”

 

Aaargh!

 

My lips part and close, but he shakes his head and walks away, disappearing into the Gallows. Loki’s shrill mewls of distress rise at my feet, and I bite back a sob and scratch her behind her ears. A film of moisture blurs my vision. I blink them away and set my jaw. Tucking Loki close to my chest, I all but stagger after him.

  
  
\---

**Day 41 (26th of Cloudreach) 10:45 AM**

 

With stiff limbs, I force myself out of bed. Moisture gathers in the corners of my eyes, and I wipe it away, leaving a path of dampness on my cheeks. Sniffling, I clamp my tongue between my teeth and bite, squeezing my eyes shut until my eyelids turn into star-laced galaxies of their own.

 

 ***** I dreamt one of my first person dreams, chains dragging down my arms and legs, fingers shoving their way between my jaws and working them open, to create an opening for…

 

I think you can guess what for.

 

Voices. There’d been voices. Not Karras.

 

_“Flames, Karras, what did you give her?”_

 

A low chuckle.

 

_“Just something to make her more… compliant.”_

 

A woman’s voice, gritty and rough.

 

_“Compliant? I’d say she’ll be mewling in our hands.”_

 

Big, calloused hands tug at my hair, forcing my head back. Hands on my bottom, hands between my legs. Blue light assaults my eyes. Look at the blue light. Keep looking, and it’ll all fade away.

 

A low whistle, a laugh.

 

_“Maker, she’s wet. Enjoying yourself, slut?”_

 

The woman’s laugh is high pitched, filling my ears with its shrill sound. Hands smack my bottom. Sharp sting. Another sharp pain in my arm. Needle. Heart pounding in my ears. Eyes falling shut. Fight it. Grit teeth and aching gums.

 

_“Just a little more…”_

 

Fingers caressing burning acid into my skin. Eyes blinking in the light. Blue hue on my skin, no acid in sight.

 

_“Go to sleep, Knight-Commander. Nothing quite matches the experience…”_

 

_“Oh-ooh, Karras, that’s why you’re so taken with Alain. Now I get it.”_

 

More laughter bouncing off the walls, echoing back into my ears from every side. My fingers, toes and mouth tingle. Saliva burns hot inside my mouth. I curl my tongue into words or try to at least.

 

“No.” My fingers twitch. The movement makes me nauseous. The floor falls away to make way for waves and lurches. Musty air scrubs my throat raw.

 

No means no. No is sacred. No means stop. Karras should stop. They should all stop. Why won’t they stop?

 

No. If the Templars are here, they’re not with Alain. If they’re all here… they’re not with the mages and Tranquil… if they hurt me, they’re not hurting anyone else.

 

“Don’t.” A cough scrapes my throat raw and makes my eyes throb. Thunderclap headache. Funny how some things never change, no matter the shell you wear.

 

Karras chuckles. A glass syringe clicks against damp stones. A warm hand wraps around my mouth, muffling my voice and forcing me to swallow against the thickening saliva in my throat.

 

_“I don’t think you understand, Knight-Commander. You have no choice in this. We won’t stop. Ever.”_

 

I know. It wasn’t what I was going to ask for.

 

Limbs heavy. Mind floating. Songs at the edges of my vision, weaving, and swaying. The words turn to shards of glass in my throat, cutting and slicing. Violently, I cough, lurching forward. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

 

Maker, sometimes… sometimes I spasm and contract and sometimes they touch me in places and coax the pleasure out of me. Sometimes one of them will use their tongue for more than calling me a slut. Sometimes I want them to go faster, to go harder, to be rougher. For the manacles to be tighter and the chains to be tauter. It’s the part of me that’s wired to be a masochist taking over.

 

It has to be.

 

The woman will shove her tongue down my throat, and I’ll kiss her back until my crazed hunger is sated. Fingers will pinch my nipples, and they’ll become hard as pebbles, and I’ll beg them to pinch harder because I won’t feel anything if they don’t. I’ll buck against someone’s palm, rubbing in a frenzied quest to come undone.

 

**They’re monsters.**

 

I’m a monster, too.

 

**Blackened hearts under clinical blue light.**

 

Not… my thoughts. Those are not my thoughts. The blue glow blinds me before it gives itself shape. Spirit. That’s a spirit. It flickers between blue, green, red and the black of oil. It wants to help, but it can’t defend me, lest it turns against its nature and become a twisted version of itself. Already, dark whispers in my ears.

 

**Traitorous mind. Do you really believe it will hurt less if you beg for it? Do you really think they’ll finish with you, head back to the Gallows and not hunger for more? You’re not dessert, you’re nothing more than an appetizer. Let me in. Let me in, and they’ll dance to our tunes. Your command will make them scrabble for their knives and swords. One command and they’ll rip each other to pieces. They’ll drop to their knees in worship, and we’ll laugh and mock and kick their seeking hands away. We’ll make their blood boil inside their veins, we’ll make them giggle and laugh as they shear the skin off their flesh, red rivulets cascading to the floor.**

 

**One day you will break, little one. You will take everything I offer and more. Feast and rip and tear we shall, drinking our fill of their heart’s blood. You will call upon Disdain when all else fails.**

 

_You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons too; you cannot have a part in both the Lord’s table and the table of demons._

 

No. I won’t. Never. Get thee behind me, Satan.

 

**My sweet darling, there’s no more room for me behind you, you know that.**

 

I close my eyes, breathe in and out, and let the adder’s lullaby sing me to sleep.

 

Acid burns in the back of my throat. Gas forms a tightly curled fist. A burp comes out in an expulsion of sound. Loki watches with big round eyes as I dash into the bathroom, slam the door shut behind me, and cough up today’s little meals. My throat burns with acid and bile, my eyes sting, my nose itches sharply. My head pounds even harder.

 

Action, reaction. Karras deprived me of human contact, of light, of affection. Being attention-starved is natural. It’s natural to seek out a touch, even if it’s groping hands and hard squeezes. Say you want it. Say you want us to pinch your nipples with our teeth, say you want us buried inside you.

 

**Sweetling, you won’t survive this without me. Let me in. Together we will rip out the festering rot at its roots. Don’t you want to watch them burn, don’t you want them to kneel and shudder under our gaze? Tell me. Echoes remain of Resilience still. I can smooth out the hurts, untangle the knot. I’ll hold you and soothe you to sleep when sleep will not come. You don’t even have to speak. All you have to do… is nothing.**

 

“Fuck! Fucking hell! Get out! Out! Argh!” I slam my fist against the bathtub’s marble surface, knuckles cracking and bone shattering under the raw force. Blood splatters offset against snow-white marble. Rasping in raw, shuddering breaths, I groan and force my fingers back into their joints one by one.

 

“Out of my head, Disdain.” A primordial growl underscores my voice. My vision sharpens, the imaginary Archdemon in my head unfurls her wings, slams her tail against the cavern ground and fills my mind with cleansing fire. A map of Kirkwall unrolls in my mind, an ethereal flickering thing with hazy details and buildings that don’t exist.

 

Swaths of black energy pulsate and whirl like stars of darkness. They tumble and wink out, dispersing and reshaping anew. The Vinmark Mountains come into focus, and on them lays the Warden Prison. A dying star beckons, cocooned by a writhing mass of darkness.

 

Fuck. I forgot about Corypheus.

 

 _Fuck._ Darkspawn.

 

With bated breath I wait for the darkness to move in my direction, while my knuckles drip with blood in crimson contrast. One by one, the dots either disperse or move toward the Vinmark Mountains and out of my reach.

 

Coughs overcome me when I dare to breathe out, carbon dioxide’s sour tang washing over my tongue. I rest my forehead against a clean part of my bathtub and whimper.

 

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

 

I need a watertight way to prevent possession. Should I fall - and of course I’ll fall, craving destruction and darkness and _malice_ has always been in my nature, I’d be a fool to believe otherwise - I have to make sure Disdain doesn’t work its way into my mind, doesn’t become the thread to stitch my broken soul into patchwork tapestry.

 

Blood magic? Could it make me forget? Wipe the slate clean? Seekers are supposed to be immune to blood magic, but there are other ways. Adder’s kiss, hypnosis, inducing a trance, herbs, rituals, maybe a simple drowsiness-inducing spell would serve.

 

Maker knows my mind plastered people I’d seen out in the wild, right there in my bedroom when I’d taken my sleeping pills. I’d figured it was just my half-asleep brain getting a headstart on processing everything it had seen that day. Half a pill was enough to make me zombie-shuffle to the bathroom and lean against my shower wall, hazily lathering myself with soap.

 

Tears burn in my eyes, and I scratch my arms until angry red welts raise my pale, cold skin. I press my lips together, press one palm over my eyes and the other to my forehead. A fishhook tugs on the nerves behind my left eye, while a drill drills holes into my right eye socket. The socket, not the eye itself. It’s worse than if it were the eye. My gums throb with a dull pain, enveloping roots and molars. I grit my teeth together and let out a low, keening groan.

 

I knock on Orsino’s office door, hand pressed against my forehead, one eye squeezed shut from pain, the other slit and watery.

 

“Come in.” Papers rustle against each other, I step inside and lean against the wall, torn between looking down at my feet and aggravating my head, or forcing Orsino’s blurry shape into focus and getting another phantom dagger into my eye.

 

I swallow heavily, throat bobbing up and down. “Knock me out for the rest of the day? Make it a week. A month. Hurts.”

 

He rises from his chair in a sharp motion. “What hurts?” His voice is like a whip, and I wince when my ears keen in response.

 

“Jesus Christ, Orsino. What do you think hurts? Maybe, just maybe, it could be my head? And my eyes? Do you realize how much this hurts? A migraine ain’t no joke. I’m this far-” I all but shove my hand in his face, pinching my thumb and index finger close together.

 

“From slamming my head into this wall-” I ram my elbow into the wall and whimper when an electric shock goes through the joint. Damn pressure points.

 

 

“And knocking myself out. So hurry the fuck-”

 

 

“Emma ir abelas

Souver'inan isala hamin...”

 

His voice is hoarse and rough around the edges. The words are simple, elegant. Familiar. I’m not the only one who had a peek in Marethari’s book on Dreamers, it seems.

 

“-up. Oh. Thanks.” I lean against the wall and force my lungs to expand. “You have spent your time helping me. May it give you grace and grant you favor.”

 

Orsino draws in a sharp breath. What? You did spend your time helping me. That deserves a thank you. No need to be so shocked.

 

“It was but a small favor,” he says, voice catching on the words. “My time was well-spent.”

 

_De da’rahn. Ara melava son’ganem._

 

Something doesn’t add up. What was it I said, again?

 

_Ma melava halani. Nuva lasa su ma enaste._

 

Oh. Great. The uthenera spell triggers my elf-speak. Gah.

 

I sink into Orsino’s waiting embrace in a tangle of boneless, leaden limbs. He kisses the top of my head, muttering words into my hair while he lifts me in his arms.

 

 

“Vhenan him dor'felas

in uthenera na revas. Andaran Atish'an Setheran.”

 

… That’s not how the song ends.

 

The middle, he mutters too softly for me to hear. I bury my fingers into his robes and press my fingers against his chest, catching the tail end of his mutterings before my eyes fall shut.

 

“Revas vir anaris, Meredith. May the Dread Wolf guide your step.”

 

Oh. My. Word.

 

* * *

**Polls are open until the 21th.**

 

[ **Prime Suspect: For The Love Of More Choices** ](https://linkto.run/p/RY7MFQP6)

 

[ **Prime Suspect: How does Orsino react to Merethilda's complicity?** ](https://linkto.run/p/BERPLMXY)

 

[ **I Know Who Your Boss Is (Determines (dis)continuity of the main ship!)** ](https://linkto.run/p/1C4GDKHG)

 

[ **Dragonhunters** ](https://linkto.run/p/XTWCGO81)

 

[ **Offer of mentoring** ](https://linkto.run/p/JSWDZ2V9)

 

[ **To Blood Mage Or Not To Blood Mage** ](https://linkto.run/p/NO01W25F)

  
  
  
  
  
  



	36. Backlog

[ **Prime Suspect: For The Love Of More Choices** ](https://i.imgur.com/eXWTvxC.png)

  


[ **Prime Suspect: How does Orsino react to Merethilda's complicity?** ](https://i.imgur.com/1iRgt8Q.png)

  


[ **I Know Who Your Boss Is (Determines (dis)continuity of the main ship!)** ](https://i.imgur.com/sIEtOa0.png)

  


[ **Dragonhunters** ](https://i.imgur.com/Kf5NfH2.png)

  


[ **Offer of mentoring** ](https://i.imgur.com/WJFTirU.png)

  


[ **To Blood Mage Or Not To Blood Mage** ](https://i.imgur.com/lHvvKcm.png)

 

* * *

  
  
**Day 43 (28th of Cloudreach) 06:00 AM**

 

My right eye burns with a vengeance when I open my eyes, shuts, and refuses to open any further than a little slit. The lumps in my mattress dig into my back and shoulders. The rough cotton of my shirt chafes my lower back when I haul myself toward the wall to sit up. Loki is nowhere to be seen. Probably with Orsino or something. Or maybe she decided she didn’t want to be a housecat after all and walked out and left. I groan and cover my eyes with my hands.

  


“Godforsaken shit-eating pile of decaying maggots-infested worthless eye hygiene - wait, what…” My wrist throbs when I push myself off the bed, the mattress creaks loud enough to awaken the deafest of Archdemons. That’d be Dumat, probably. Good thing he’s already dead.

  


Yeah, everyone thought Corypheus was dead, too. Fun fact: he body-hopped into a Tainted person not even close enough to dream of killing him.

  


Wait a minute.

  


Hawke killed Corypheus.

  


Hawke, who isn’t a Grey Warden.

  


So all I have to do to get rid of Corypheus is…

  


Oh. Right. Templar Carver.

  


For once the Hawke meme “I came here to kick ass and defend my family. And I’m all out of family.” is maddeningly tragic. Well, it was tragic anyway, but it wasn’t my reality at the time.

  


At least I don’t have any family to lose.

  


My fingers dig into my sides when I hug myself, resting my chin on my chest and squeezing my eyes shut. I grit my teeth and drag my teeth over my bottom lip to chase the tears away. Fenris and I can hold a pity party after Danarius kicks the bucket. I wouldn’t mind a pre-party right about now. Or some Agreggio. Someone took my shoes and socks off, probably Mr. Second-Hand-Fake-Fade-Anecdotes-For-Sale, and I rub my big toe over the dusty floorboards.

  


The nail splintered and the skin around the sides is flushed and raised. I prod at it and hiss when a sharp sting says hello. WTF, Flemeth? You couldn’t find someone without ingrown toenails? I was wrong about this being an upgrade. This is a samegrade. With my luck, Thedosian’s way of dealing with ingrown toenails is amputation. Of the leg. You never know, if toenails grow back, the leg might do the same. Best be cautious.

  


With a sigh, I tap the cooling rune on my bathtub and hold my hand under the tap.

  


“Shitstain!” Ice cold water cascades over my hand and through my fingers, and I jump back and shake it out like an idiot. At least now I can be a man on a mission. Order thousands of those runes from Sandal and make him and Bodahn filthy rich with Chantry money, and then make myself the Chantry the Circle filthy rich by selling frozen meals.

  


Holy shit, that’s actually a fantastic business plan. All I need are connections, which I have because I have Varric, who has links with the merchant guild, which has connections with Orzammar. Wait, Behlen will find a way to pretend he invented the Stannard’s Frozen Foods. Ack, Varric will want his name in there. Tethras and Stannard’s? Chantry Cuisine. Circle Cuisine.

  


Orsino sucks dishwasher with ice magic so Anders will have to help out. Heh. ‘Tethras and Stannard’s Chantry Cuisine: Bought Ice Cold and tastes divine when heated with zeal. No, not cooked on the Eternal Fire in the Chantry. WTF is wrong with you?’

  


Great plan. Except for the fact that 80% of Thedas is illiterate. And farmer. They could supply me, but then I’d be hogging all the produce, and imagine there’s a Sixth Blight.  None of the meals can make it to the people, and then everything will blow up in our faces. The starving people will eat their way through the regrown Darkspawn horde in Lusacan’s service. The nobles will starve because the farmers all became Darkspawn.

  


Maybe they’ll become cannibalistic Darkspawn and eat the Archdemon 1,000,000 times until there are only two Darkspawn left?

  


Us nobles are still in our castles, towers, and cities eating each other while the Taint eats the world, though. Solas would have his work cut out for him. No more people left to work against him. Oh, and the Ancient Elves will just move into the Crossroads, separate it from the waking world completely and live out their immortal lives in the Fade.

  


Because the Fade being separate from reality doesn’t matter if everyone is physically in the Fa-

  


Oh, God.

  


If everyone’s on one side, it doesn’t matter that the other side is a separate thing. Because there’s no-one in it.

  


Solas, you win the title of Most Oblivious Person In The World. You can put it on the shelf right there next to your Most Catastrophic Plans Ever badge. You could’ve literally picked up the Inquisitor, taken a grand Ancient Elves In Uthenera tour throughout Thedas, woken everyone up, and opened rifts for them to walk into the Fade just like that. The Fade comes with unlimited space!

  


If your high-horsed Elves are willing to share their unlimited space with the human mage populace (because why would they want to stay on this side if they can be on that side?), Thedas can go on living in pleasant delusion. No Evanuris to worry about, no Darkspawn to worry about, and you even get to watch ‘Humans vs. Qunari’ for free. Live. In HD.

  


Until Vidassala solidifies the Veil and we’re the ones cut off.

  


And you and your Ancient Elves will go on with your eternal lives, while you feel only slightly wrong about not making the world a better place. Until it all blows up in your faces because there will be a new set of Evanuris, your elves will try to enslave the human mages, and the human mages will wage war on you, and a fight in the Fade, where thoughts can take shape and your battlefield is one giant mindscape? Just one mage with the conviction the Fade is better off as a wasteland with nothing in it, and...

  


Flash, bang, shockwave, you’re all nuked. Well done. Slow clap.

  


My stomach flip flops and my throat constricts, skin prickling with unease. I scratch at my arms and choke out a dry laugh.

  


I step into my full bathtub, jump out of it with a shriek and do an impromptu yodel-tapdance-moonwalk variation on the Fortnite Dance(trademark. Ish).

  


Right. Ice cold water for the win. At least I’m awake now.

  


God, someone will get my idea. Solas might get my idea. And manage to fuck it up even worse than I did. I mean than Solas did. YOU HAD ONE JOB. ONE!

  


Solas’s organization can’t be that big now, he only woke up in Dragon Age something-something and his prime agent had been Felassan. Except now it’s Orsino and Orsino isn’t stupid. Ideas don’t exist in a vacuum. If I’m thinking it, someone else is, too. Millions of Kickstarter programs are started every day, but only a handful make it beyond Kickstarter’s parameters. They just don’t have the funding, or the means, or the knowledge, or the demand or the support.

  


At least no Thedosian will make the jump from Lean Cuisine to Fade War I. II. III? IIII? Wait, isn’t that a V or something? Fade War X?

  


Fuck Roman numeric, I’m never sleeping again.

  


All right. I zombie-shuffled out of Side Alley and neglected to make sure Squish was taken care of. Ugh, that sounds like I should’ve arranged for Squish to get cleaned up, a.k.a. Murdered. Fuck, the Kirkwall Killer is something I should take care of, too. I know who it is. There’s evidence all over Kirkwall. I have someone to reach him, a.k.a. The First Enchanter of the Gallows. It should be easy. Hire Zevran or Elsa to follow Orsino, have a team of Templars and City Guards at the ready and arrest them both. Oh, and Gascard, too. Either confession should lead us to Gascard.

  


Why am I not doing it? It’s the only right course of action.

  


I rap my knuckles against Orsino’s door and push it open without waiting for an answer, holding on the side with my hands and peeking my head inside. Orsino lifts his head from his books and smiles.

  


“Ah, Meredith. I trust you had a good-”

  


“You work for Fen’Harel.”

  


The growing blush that had been on his cheeks drains away, and his eyes widen. His quill hangs motionless in the air, gripping fingers slackening. Fuck. That was not what should’ve come out of my mouth. Come on, brains, you know the drill. Thank you for the restful sleep, I’ll be on my way. You had ONE JOB. Orsino blinks, his mouth forms words, but his voice refuses to give them shape.

  


I chuckle and shake my head. “Yeah, I know. I tend to be like that. BAM! big revelation on your doorstep.” I frown down at the threshold. “Office threshold. Whatever.”  

 

“How- you’re not- no-one- By the Fade, woman.” Orsino laughs, pressing a hand against his forehead.

  


“I’m not elven?” I ask dryly. “I shouldn’t know a single thing about elven culture or their pantheon or anything like that?”

  


“Yes, that does approach what I was going to say.” Belatedly, he lays down his quill, tapping it with his fingers. He rolls it over his desk with the palm of his hand. His smile fades. “I suppose this means we’re on different sides from now on.”

  


I pull in my chin and widen my eyes. “Huh. Are you kidding me? The Veil’s going down, but not in the way Fenny has in mind.”

  


“Fen… oh, Maker.”

  


The next few hours are spent exchanging elven stories and legends, and what little we both know about Fen- Solas, his name is Solas. One person. He’s one person. Keep it together, brain. Don’t fall for his lies. Except he never lied, did he, now? I draw a rough draft of what I think Solas’s Veil artifacts look like, tap the pen, and repeatedly say things like: ‘But we’ll have to wait until Dagna shows up to make these things.’

  


Orsino keeps smiling at me the entire conversation, arm pressed against mine. Occasionally, he rubs his thumb over the back of my hand and squeezes our interlaced fingers.

  


Finally, progress.

  


**Day 43 (28th of Cloudreach) 12:00 PM**

 

Thrask hauled my butt outside for training and kept having to compensate for my lack of attention. Once, he almost decapitated me and I only just managed to roll out of the way, bashing my chin against a wall in the process.

  


Yeah. We called it off after that. It’s just that Cullen’s lying in the Clinic, dying. Somewhere out there, Quentin is waiting in the wings to grab Leandra and turn her into Frankenstein’s Monster. I can’t remember what the Qunari will do after Blackpowder Courtesy, courtesy of my lousy memory, and I keep pinching myself to make sure I’m vigilant.

  


If only I could shove Quentin, the Qunari, Corypheus, and Fen’Harel on a ship to Far, Far Away and pretend they don’t exist. I’d be able to focus on the mages and the elves.

  


Pausing in the middle of Lowtown’s marketplace, I look down at my hands. My fingers are calloused from holding a sword, but the inactivity has rendered them softer.

  


Meredith’s fingers.

  


Sometimes I forget.

  


“Merrill, I believe the children would like to hear the story about Fen’Harel again,” a voice from the Alienage drifts around the corner.

  


“Of course, hahren,” Merrill answers, slightly out of breath. “But I’m sure Devenny can recite it in time with me. Wouldn’t they rather hear the tale of Elgar’nan throwing the sun from the skies? Or how Ghilan’nain became the mother of Halla?”

  


I twist around the corner and descend the steps. “How about the one with Fen’Harel and the slow arrow?”

  


Five young elven faces peer up at me, vibrant eyes wide and round. Blue, copper, green, muddy, walnut. Their hair spills over their pointed ears in curls, ringlets, waves, frizz. One girl has her velvet black hair braided into a crown pinned to her head. I smile at them and then raise my eyebrows at Merrill and the Alienage hahren.

  


Merrill frowns, tugging at a ladder in her green legging. “I think I don’t know that one. Would it be all right if Meredith told it, Reeba?”

  


Eh. Fuck.

  


Reeba’s straw-colored hair sweeps around her when she turns to me, her gray eyes guarded. Lines of age crease around her eyes and mouth.

  


“What would a shemlen know of Dalish legends?” she asks, her eyelids level with her pupils.

  


“Enough for a story or two.” I shrug and spread out my fingers, wiggling them at the children. They watch silently, one of them sucking his thumb, another’s head tilted to the side as if he can see us clearer when his world is lopsided.

  


“Pleeeease Hahren!” The girl with brown curls and almond-colored eyes pouts, gazing up at Reeba, Merrill and me.

  


“I want to hear the story!” A boy with short hair and freckles stamps his foot on the ground and points diligently at Reeba.

  


“Story, story, story!” All five children are chanting within minutes, and Reeba is forced to disentangle one from her leg, Merrill picks one toddler (who’s more confused by the ruckus than anything else) up in her arms, and I smirk widely at the boy and girl who are now tugging at my pants. The last one just sits on the ground and watches sand sift through his fingers.

  


“What’s all this fuss about?” A real hahren leaves her makeshift market boot, knobbed walking stick tapping the dry ground with soft clacks. Wrinkles crease her wizened old face, lines making her face stern even if her milky blue eyes are friendly enough. Faded pinkish white lines spin and tumble over her face, roughly forming a set of Halla horns above her eyebrows.

  


The boy looks up at Hahren and frowns, pouting. “Meredith wants to tell us a story about Fennarel. Hahren Reeba won’t let her.”

  


Hahren’s milky eyes fasten on me. “The Dread Wolf has your foot in his jaws, shemlen.”

  


“Uh… I’ll be sure to give him a chicken, then. Y’know, subterfuge and all that.” I side-eye Merrill and Reeba, and the kids gasp in horror and delight. Hahren’s lips strain into a broad smile, straining her wrinkled cheeks. Tingles erupt at my spine and sweep through my arms and legs until they settle at my fingertips.

  


“‘Nay,” she says. “Make it Orlesian frilly cakes. He has a sweet tooth.” She cackles, a dry hacking laugh interrupted by a coughing fit. The question of ‘Flemeth, is that you? WTF?’ is on the tip of my tongue, but I manage to swallow it down. Merrill takes Hahren by the arm while Reeba dirigades the children to benches around the Venadahl.

  


“Come, Hahren, you should not be outside in this weather. The cold is bad on your lungs,” Merrill says.

 

A door slams shut. “Hahren!” Arianni calls out. Green eyes wide and panicked, she rushes toward us. Her chest heaves up and down, and she presses a hand against her chest, breath rushing in and out of her lungs. In her other hand, she holds a gleaming staff made from matt material, with glowing blue etchings.

  


Oh. It’s mine. Awesome.

  


Still catching her breath, Arianni turns to me and holds the staff out for me to take. I wrap my fingers around it, and it thrums in response, the blue engravings glowing firmer.

  


Oooh, shiny. My cheeks ache with how hard I’m smirking.

  


“Keeper Marethari had the clan’s crafters work on it,” Arianni says, blowing out a sigh at my approval. “As thanks for what you did for Feynriel.”

  


“Wow. Please tell Keeper Marethari I said thanks,” I lean one end of the staff on the ground and smile. “You should come to visit Feynriel some more. He does miss you, y’know?”

  


“I shall, soon. Before he leaves.” With one last nod, Arianni takes Hahren’s other arm and all but hauls the old woman off to her home, with Merrill on the other side. Hahren Reeba takes in the staff with a frown on her face and arms crossed over her chest, before sighing.

  


“Gifts from a Dalish clan to a shemlen are rare,” she says, tapping her fingers on her bicep. “Go on, then. Tell the children about Fen’Harel. But don’t make them too enamored with the old fleabag.”

  


I huff out a laugh through my nose and smirk until my cheeks burn. “No, ma'am.” I raise my hand for a salute and drop it halfway, shaking my head. Five wide, curious eyes staring at me from the Venadahl’s surrounding benches. I scrutinize the rough etching on eye level.

  


_Yleanah, married to Farnic of Ostwick, Dragon Age twenty and five on the fifth of the month five._

 

_Joannah, born to Dylan and Patrina of Kirkwall, Dragon Age twenty and nine on the seventh of month twenty_

 

_Araidian, of origins unknown, departed from us to unknown regions of Orlais on Dragon Age thirty and one on the second of the third month._

 

_Seralysa, of Denerim, passed from Blight Disease on Dragon Age thirty on the third day of the fifth month._

  


In some Alienages, the Vhenadahl apparently doubles as administration. ‘Pity that random elf, we have to wait a year until the tree has grown another inch before we can add him to our community.’

  


My fingers brush over the Seralysa’s name. “For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing, and they have no more reward, for the memory of them is forgotten.”

  


“Okay then.” I rotate my neck until the muscles pop, and one of the children winces. Most of the others laugh and clap or kick their legs into the air.  Interlacing my fingers, I crack them too, smiling when they applaud and laugh.

  


“The Venadahl gave me another idea,” I say, pointing at it with my staff.

  


“Are you a mage?” one of the elves ask. Another one shushes the kid with a finger to his lips. I laugh and shake my head.

  


“Nope, just human in here.” I tap my chest with my fist.

  


“Anyway, Fen’Harel. Short story. Maybe I’ll cook up a longer, next time.”

  


A revised version, because Solas can use some good publicity, especially now I’m involved. Goosebumps on my arms. Fuck. I’m involved. Fuck. I swallow my unease and clap my hands together.

  


“Fen'Harel was captured by the hunting goddess, Andruil. He had angered her by hunting the halla without her blessing, and she tied him to a tree and declared that he would have to serve in her bed for a year and a day to pay her back.”

  


The children frown and glance at the oldest, who scrunches up his face in confusion and shrugs.

  


Oops. Might’ve wanted to make it PG first. Hehe, my bad.

  


“But as she made camp that night, the dark god Anaris found them, and Anaris swore that he would kill Fen'Harel for crimes against the Forgotten Ones-”

  


“Who?” The oldest kid asks.

  


Smirking, I jab my finger at him. “Exactly. You’ve got the gist of it.”

  


It takes a few seconds of stunned silence. Then they laugh.

  


“Andruil and Anaris decided that they would duel for the right to claim Fen'Harel-”

  


“In bed?” the girl with brown curls asks. “Why would anyone want to share their bed with a wolf? He’ll just soil the bedding with his muddy paws! Ew, and drool! Ew!”

  


My hand is just about glued to my mouth from hiding my laughter, eyes tearing up.

  


“He called out-” I laugh again and clench my teeth together, shaking my head.

  


“Sorry, kids. He called out to Anaris during the fight and told him of a flaw in Andruil's armor just above the hip, and Anaris stabbed Andruil in the side, and she fell.”

  


“Did she die?” one kid asks, eyes wide. The others gape at me with slack jaws.

  


“Of course she died, idiot! What’s-his-name stabbed her! She died, just like old Hans when that thief stabbed ‘im in the gut.”

  


“Yeh.” The girl nods wisely. “That sucked. ‘specially when his wounds festered an’ Hahren had to put him to sleep.”

  


Mental note: Anders or Lee to Alienage ASAP. As well as blankets, fresh produce, livestock, and other stuff. Oh, and someone to test the girl with brown curls for magic. Why? I don’t fucking know, it’s just a hunch. My hunches are usually right.

  


“Fen'Harel told Anaris he owed the Dread Wolf for the victory and ought to get his freedom. Anaris was so affronted by Fen'Harel's audacity, he turned and shouted insults at the prisoner. He did not see Andruil, injured but alive, rise behind him and attack with her great bow. Anaris fell with a golden arrow in his back, badly injured, and while both gods slumbered to heal their wounds, Fen'Harel chewed through his ropes and escaped. And that’s the end."

  


I tilt my head to the side and narrow my eyes, chewing on my bottom lip. “What would’ve been a better way of handling his situation? Fen’Harel, I mean. No, wait, let’s look at it from everyone’s side. Can’t hurt.”

  


The girl with the curls frowns so deeply she’s probably giving herself a headache, while the toddler tosses a handful of sand into the boy’s hair. The boy grunts in disapproval and rubs sand into the toddler’s hair, which makes him cry. I roll my eyes and ignore them. They’ll sort it out on their own. Besides, the toddler might one day save the boy’s life on the battlefield by tossing sand into the enemies’ eyes.

  


“He should’ve asked Andruil for permission to hunt the Halla,” the girl said. Wise one. I nod in approval.

  


“He should’ve been sneakier,” the boy with the squirming toddler in his arms says.

  


“He should’ve had someone else hunt the Halla in his stead,” says the short-haired boy. His green eyes shine, and he smirks.

  


“No!” the girl shouts out of the blue. “It’s obviously a setup. Fen’Harel committed crimes against Whats-his-name because he knew Whats-his-name would come to his rescue. Er. Kind of.”

  


“Can you say his name?” I ask, focusing on her. “Anaris.”

 

She shakes her head, eyes straining and brow creased.

 

“A-na-ris,” I repeat, more slowly this time.

  


“Ana… Anar… Flames!” the girl growls, jaw set and hands curled into fists.

 

“Try one more time, in two parts,” I say, crouching on her eye level. “Ana. Ris.”

 

“Anaris!” she shouts, pumping her fist into the air.

  


A shockwave throws me off my feet, the ground rough against my back, and I struggle to draw air into my lungs. Gasping, I scramble back on my feet and assume a fighting stance with my staff in my hands. Left, right, back, front. Nothing.

  


“The shockwave came from you,” the girl says, her eyes wide. All five children gape at me. The toddler cries his lungs out, face an angry red, tears and sand streaking his cheeks.

 

“Uh… I’ve got to take care of something. Go help Hahren Reeba with chores or something.” I throw myself into a forward run and ignore their shouted questions.

  


Fuck fuck fuck fuck I broke the enchantment or curse or whatever it is fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck not good definitely not good fuck people remember their names now ugh me and my grand ideas. UGH!

  


I’ve circled the Alienage once and Lowtown twice when I run headfirst into Squish. I can tell you one thing, he’s not very squishy. The collar has been removed. I’ll have to check with the Circle’s smiths to see what happened to it. Under no circumstances can the knowledge of them spread to the Chantry. Mages would be shackled and collared before you could say ‘new rules.’

  


“Basalit-an,” Squish says, shoving me behind his bulk. “Your enemies will perish under my might.”

  


Doubling over, I force slow, deep breaths in and out of my lungs. In, out, in, out. As long as it takes for the spots to disappear from my vision and the buzzing to stop in my ears. Wait, what did Squish just-

  


“Fuck. You called me basalit-an.” I shift my grip on my staff and ignore the burning heat at my fingertips. The blue lyrium engraving emits a soft glow. Don’t want to know what happens if Fenris touches it. Definitely, don’t want to know.

  


“You stopped the attacker who meant to frame the Qun, and you held your ground and defended your fallen friend turned foe the best you could,” he

 

rumbles. “And you did not prevent Saarebas from her ritualistic cleanse, despite breaking my shackles. For that, the Arishok will respect you and yours.”

  


Ack. Note to self: find Tal-Vashoth to kill so I’m prepared for the Arishok battle. Girl Scouts be prepared. Hahaha. Fuck. Where’s my time machine. Right, on some ship from Tevinter, probably. Holy macaroni, that’s legit. Actual time magic. I could turn back time for months and…

  


Yeah, and what, Peggy? Kill Karras before he grabs me? Use my badass Seeker abilities to kill them all and free the mages?

  


You know. I could try that. Just because. If I had an amulet to send me back to before I went back in time. And land myself in a black vortex because oops, I destroyed time. Quantum mechanics and all that. Paradoxes and shit. Meh. Best go easy on the time magic, just in case. Kickass war will have to take place in alternate futures, not in the past. Huh. Might as well use the future to practice fighting. Maker. With the future at my feet, I could literally try out hundred-and-one scenarios and choose the best one.  

  


Trembling, I lower myself into a cross-legged position and press my hands against Lowtown’s cobblestones, breathing in heavily through my mouth. My heart hammers as if I’ve run a marathon. My heartbeat thrums all the way from my fingertips to my toes. My teeth chatter. My parched throat stings from dusty air. Fuck. I should’ve watched Back to the Future. The only reference I have here is that movie with that dagger. Crap. What was it called? The hilt was filled with sand… Oh, Prince of Persia. Yeah. Every shitty scenario they went through was undone at the end. No help there. Bugger.

  


Squish silently watches me spazz myself into an aneurysm and wisely does not comment. Finally, I look up at him and shrug. “What do you want to do now that you’re Tal Vashoth?”

  


His shoulders rise and fall. “The Arishok was supposed to obtain the Tome of Koslun from Orlesian ambassadors. The Tome was lost, but perhaps Orlais has more relics of the Qun. I would like to investigate.”

  


Tal-Vashoth my ass. But I shrug and nod nonetheless. “Okay then. Let’s find you a ship.”

  


**Day 43 (28th of Cloudreach) 01:00 PM**

  


No captain is willing to transport a Saarebas on the loose until I give my bag of coins a hefty shake, and that captain has quite the golden teeth and earrings and other piercings and tattoos to speak of a profitable smuggling career.

 

“Got any lyrium to go with it?” he asks, jabbing an elbow at Squish. Squish grunts in disapproval.

  


“Hey-hoo, Jack Sparrow. You’re talking to the Knight-Commander. In the flesh.” My sarcasm appears lost on him because he narrows his eyes and lowers them to my cleavage. In answer, I raise my hand and let it bask in blue fire. Sparrow’s face takes on a green tint, even in the blue glow.

  


I smirk. “Now, about your crew. I’m headed to the Hanged Man in a minute. What do they like to drink? Y’know, some Dutch Courage on the way. My treat.”

  


The Hanged Man is not prepared for one Knight-Commander plus a crew of renegade pirates on a mission to get smashed in preparation for ‘sensitive cargo’ as Jack has taken to referring to Squish. I, on my turn, refuse to call him anything but Jack Sparrow. Or Jack. Or Sparrow.

  


Despite not having had any caffeine, my fingers won’t stop trembling, and my shoulders won’t lower from their place next to my ears. My neck muscles refuse to stop playing ‘I’m a boulder’ either. Please go play hide-and-seek… Or I Spy With My Little Eye.

  


I Spy With My Little Eye… a tavern filled with confused patrons who are trying to wrap their heads around a potential law-breaking pirate Knight-Commander. My feet floating and my head spinning, I thump my forehead against Varric’s table and groan against the wood. Isabela is the only one who’s enjoying herself immensely with the pirate crew, already into the third Diamondback game and draped over Jack’s lap. Jack has his hand in her hair, and his cards fanned out in hand resting on her lap.  

  


Varric pats me on the back and shoves his tankard of old ale against my forehead. I drink it like a dying fish on a bed of salt and shudder, wrinkling my face in distaste.

  


“At least the ale knows it got shot, drowned, suffocated and buried ten times over before it even got pooped into this world stillborn.” My vocal cords vibrate to give shape to sounds, my tongue curls those sounds into words and my lips polish them with articulation. I might be into my third tankard myself. Contrary to popular belief, it does not make alcohol any better.

  


Varric guffaws and slaps my back. “‘Meredith Stannard said dryly, looking forlornly at the charming dwarf’s empty mug.’”

  


“Keep the first, forlornly is fine, omit charming dwarf’s.” Blinking, I shake my head and rub my forehead.

  


“Sorry, Varric, it’s not that you’re not charming, but that sentence is too complex. For my drunk mind, anyway.”  

  


Varric mutters unintelligibly under his breath, his squill scribbling over the page on max speed. A tiny potted plant, a thin rock with the width of my palm, a forgotten half-empty bowl of stew and one sheathed knife keep the scroll from rolling itself up.

  


I tap the knife. “You have your own murder knife?”

  


Varric’s head snaps up, eyes bright and vigilant “Murder? Where?”

  


Chuckling, I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the chair’s back. “The knife,” I say, jutting my chin at it.

  


“Oh, that,” he says, with a shrug. “Eh, sometimes my stories require visual support.”

  


A.k.a. When he can’t lie his way out of things, he resorts to threats. Oh well. It’s Thedas, and Thedas comes with murder.

  


“I just need a name for a new series…” He wipes away the ink blotches that splattered on his hands when he tapped the back of his quill against the vellum.

  


Aveline startles me into my second death by poking her head out of a potted plant. “I can’t do this,” she says, a withered leaf eye-patching her right eye. She goes cross-eyed looking at it, huffing out her breath in an attempt to blow it away.

  


“Ah, imagine… nice sandy beach. Yes. Think a nice sandy beach. There are gulls, and there’s warm sand between your toes, and, er, other places if you’re into rolling in the sand, never mind forget I said that… and there are no bandits because Hawke killed them all-”

  


“I expect a reward for that!” Hawke yells from wherever the fuck she’s been hiding. She sets two mugs down at a table in the middle of the tavern, the contents sloshing over her fingers.  “Though I’d prefer bandits over Guardsman- Guardsman Donnic, there you are, so nice to see you!”

  


Aveline disappears into the plant with wide eyes. Varric stifles a laugh behind his hand.

  


“-and Guardsman Donnic definitely needs to be saved from Gloria Hawke over there-”

  


“MY NAME IS MARIAN! MARIAN!” Hawke shrieks at the top of her lungs.

  


“Oh Maker,” Guardsman Donnic whispers.

  


“-who’s voice rouses sleeping Archdemons with the sole purpose of begging the Grey Wardens to put them out of their misery-”

  


“NO SHOUTING IN MY TAVERN!”

  


“‘Corff shouted in a thunderous voice,’” Varric mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes. He freezes, blinks, and starts flipping through stacks of blank vellum.

 

“Yes! That’s it. A culinary series about The Hanged Man. ‘No shouting in my tavern!’” He holds out his hands and lines an imaginary title in the air. I choke on my ale, and he pats me on the back.

  


“Hawke? What’s wrong with the Knight-Commander?” Donnic asks because I’m probably staring at them all with glassy eyes like overstimulated ADHD tends to do. While drowning in the ale that turned before it’s brewer was born. No, wait, before the brewer got inseminated.

  


Something’s wrong with that sentence. Meh. My thoughtful frown falls from my face at Hawke’s next words.

  


“Oh, she’s just jealous because she fancies me. But shhh, don’t tell anyone, we’re having a secret affair.” Her voice carries through the entire tavern. A mug slips through Corf’s fingers, a mercenary playing five-finger-fillet with three Tal-Vashoth howls when he stabs himself in the middle of his hand, Isabela lets out a shrieking laugh and topples off Jack’s lap, and that drunk Lyrium-addled Templar you can frame Keran with jerks awake and yanks his hair out of his ale.

  


Wide-eyed with lips pressed together, I glance to the left and right with my eyes, clutching Varric’s ale in a death-grip.

  


“Help,” I mutter, barely moving my lips. Varric rubs his nose and plasters a grin on his face.

  


“Oh come on, Hawke. You and I both know you’re mooning after Choir Boy when he’s not looking. And Anders. And Fenris. And Curl-”

  


Hawke narrows her eyes. “I am not, thank you very much.”

  


Isabela laughs. “Yes, you are! When you’re not drooling over Merrill’s magic mirror, you’re making Choir Boy read you the Chant. Not that you hear any of it.”

  


“And how would you know what I have Sebastian read to me, Isabela?” Hawke asks, her hands planted firmly in her hips. Donnic looks from Isabela to Hawke and back, eyes wide.

  


“Thank you, Varric,” I whisper. “I owe you one.”

  


“Ah. Uhm. Well. That’s... Something,” Donnic says, wiping hair out of his eyes. His bangs flow in front of him when he shoves his chair back and gets up. “I have to make it back in time for… yesterday’s training.”

  


“Hawke,” Aveline growls under her breath, abandoning her potted plant and darting around the outer tables of the tavern. She steps into Donnic’s path with the intention of cutting him off.

  


“But-” Hawke says. Donnic turns around and smacks into Aveline with a yelp.

  


“Ow!” Aveline shouts when they both crash to the floor. Hey, at least she’s wearing armor. Wait. Ouch. Donnic broke his fall on that armor. Ah… fingers crossed he didn’t break his nose, too.

  


“See, Aveline?” Hawke chirps. “He’s smitten. You don’t need me at all to catch his fancy.”

  


“Catch me- I thought this was a party for the entire- for the love of the Maker, Aveline, what’s going on?” Donnic asks, untangling his legs from Aveline and repeatedly crashing against her chest because his hands keep slipping away in spilled ale.

  


“Right now? You’re crushing me,” comes Aveline’s muffled voice from underneath Donnic. “I thought armor was heavy. Flames. Don’t say that out loud, you stupid…” she ends in inaudible muttering.

  


“Maker,” I groan, rubbing my fingers over the grainy table. Okay. I’m counting to three, and then I’ll get up for the friendtervention.

  


“Maker!” Donnic says, scrambling to his feet. “I’m sorry, Guard-Captain, I’ll- I’ll see you… somewhere. Probably. Good night. Don’t get hacked to pieces by the Kirkwall Killer if you can help it. Flames, forget I said that.” Quick, slamming footsteps before the door is slammed shut. Paintings rattle in their frames.  

  


“The Kirkwall-” Aveline says, trailing off. She’s probably watching him go with a forlorn look in those blue eyes of hers, lips slightly parted in disbelief, her freckled skin ashen even in the tavern’s lights. Lamps. Candles. There’s light, so shut up. “‘Don’t get hacked to pieces,’ he says, and leaves me to walk home by myself?!’”

  


“Damn, go Aveline!” Hawke slams her elbow into the table and tenses her bicep, downing Donnic’s empty mug in one go. “If I’d known you were going to reel him into your bed, I would’ve asked Isabela for her love-rum.”

  


“Love-rum?” Aveline and Jack sputter. Jack is quick to set his tankard back down and frowns at Isabela. “Love, it’s a male crew for this trip. What’s a man to do?”  Aveline twists sideways so she can gawk at Isabela with wide eyes. In a small voice, she asks: “You think I’m desperate enough to need the whore’s help?”

 

“-it’ll work on Donnic, too! Wait… didn’t Isabela- Maker! Isabela brought our drinks! BELA! I can’t go to Merrill’s like this! I had two!” Hawke shakes out her hands and fans herself.

  


Smirking like the cat that ate the canary, Bela drags her tongue across her teeth and rests her chin on the palm of her hand, her elbow planted on her pulled-up knees. “That’s the point, Hawke. You can thank me later. You too, Aveline. Oh, I’d step away from Hawke unless you want to get smooched.”

  


Isabela blows a kiss to Jack, who takes an experimental sip from his tankard and shrugs.

  


Aveline’s mouth form words that don’t come out. Hawke’s cheeks flush with color, and she sways on her feet, putting a hand to her forehead. “Aveline, have I ever told you: you look like a canned sardine in that armor of yours? A very, very rugged canned sardine… ready for its package to be stripped off...”

  


Isabela’s smirk fades, and she stares at Hawke with wide eyes. “Huh… I might’ve… given them just the concoction and not the rum it was supposed to be diluted in. Ah, Aveline, you might hurry and catch up with Donnic.”

  


“You’re under arrest! Stay here!” Aveline snaps, storming out of the tavern without a second glance for Hawke.

  


“Aveliiiiiine,” Hawke wails. “There’s plenty of room in my bed for Merrill and Donnic! And you! It’s best to sex it off somewhere no-one gets hurt! The furniture won’t mind, Merrill already broke it when she fell off the chandelier!”

  


The door slams shut behind Aveline. “I’ll kick Mangy out of the room!” Hawke shouts.

  


Varric chuckles. Whirling around, Hawke’s feverish eyes land on him. With her lips pulled into a wide smirk, she tiptoes toward him, eyes alight. Alarmed, Varric presses into my side, grinning half-heartedly when Hawke grabs the lapels of his coat. “Ah, Hawke, you know I’ll let you buy me a drink anytime, but Bianca’s prone to jealous- hmpf.”

  


Oh, God. That’s definitely tongue. Wide-eyed, I scoot away from them, circle around Hawke, tap her on the shoulder and swan-dive beneath another table when she looks over her shoulder, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy. The patrons seated at my hideout lift their legs to make room for me, chuckling and clinking their mugs together in a salute.

  


“Hm…” Hawke whispers, rubbing over her lips with her index finger. With a pout, she looks down at Varric, who valiantly straightens his coat. Planting a kiss on Varric’s cheek, she tilts her head to the side and smiles. “Sorry, Varric. Merrill wins.”

  


“Eh, no need, Hawke. Bianca and I will be fine on our own.”

  


Yep. Varric and Bianca forever.

  


“Say hello to Daisy for me. Don’t trip over any orgies on the way,” he says with a grin. “Or make them, for that matter.” He rubs his chin with the back of his hand.

  


Hawke gives him a wolfish grin. “I’ll try.”

  


Varric chuckles, eyes following her determined strides out of the tavern. I tilt my head back and drag myself out from under the table. “Sorry ‘bout that. Thanks for hiding me.”  

  


Corf huffs and furiously tosses shards on top of a potted plant’s soil.

  


Pokon for edgelords.

  


All shards deposited, Corf dusts off his hands. Glaring at his tavern with his hands on his hips, he rolls his eyes. “Y’all need Andraste.”

  


Varric raises his eyebrows when I lay my head on my hands and laugh until my sides hurt and my throat is scraped raw.

  


“Here, take my egg and mince pie before you laugh yourself to death.” I lift my head from my hands and Samson shoves a steaming bowl with runny egg-yolks and cardboard-resembling mince under my nose, crowned by cracked pie pastry. Sighing deeply, I wipe the tears from my eyes.

  


“Catch!” someone shouts, and Samson ducks out of the way lest he gets impaled by the good samaritan’s cutlery, which is rolled securely into a greasy napkin. I roll it out and scrape over the pastry’s surface. Not even a dent. I raise my eyebrows. Samson’s cheeks twitch, the corners of his lips curling up. Rolling my eyes, I wrap my hands around the fork, lift it above my head and Vlad the Impaler the pie to hell and back. Laughing, Samson drops into the chair next to me and shakes his head.

  


“‘Fresh,’” Samson says, lips twitching upward. “I’m sure it was when old Dumat rose, yes. Reckon the Grey Wardens could’ve ended that Blight a lot quicker had they chucked Corf at the big old beast.” With a shrug, Samson raises his own mug of ale to his mouth.

  


Groaning loudly, I drop my head in my hands. “I’ve got a new name for a new book, Varric.”

  


“Oh? Well, don’t leave us in suspense!” He’s picked up his quill, eyes on the pages rather than me.

  
  


“Murder, she committed.” It’s a miracle my tone doesn’t evaporate Samson’s ale in thin air.

  


Varric taps his index finger against his chin. “Maybe. For my book about the Kirkwall Killer. Just ‘Kirkwall Killer’ is a bit too predictable, anyway.”

  


Varric frowns. “Except it’ll flop when the Kirkwall Killer turns out to be a man.”

  


He gasps. “Damn, Firebreath, what if it’s an ugly, jealous woman out to kill all other women so she’ll be the fairest? Maker’s breath, we might be on to something here.”

  


Uhh… Not quite. But close. Ish. I purse my lips and shrug, pulling a scribbled page closer to me. My head snaps back up.

  


“Wait, wait, wait, you gave me a nickname? Why Firebreath? I don’t breathe fire.”

  


Chuckling, Varric pulls the page from my slack fingers and taps it back into the stack. “Yes, you do.”

 

He taps his quill against the scroll of vellum, before striking through a line.  “Yes, you do.”

 

“Yes, you do.” His lips form a smile as he leafs through the stack, pulling out pages and dropping them in on other places.

  


“I heard you the first time,” I say dryly.

  


“Huh?” Varric blinks at me blearily.

  


“You said that thrice.”

  


Grunting, Varric upends his ale into the potted plant Aveline had been hiding behind. “Ugh. Best go easy on this stuff.”

 

* * *

**New polls open until March 28th**

[ **Jack and his crew** ](https://linkto.run/p/C53DX7NQ)

  


[ **Anaris** ](https://linkto.run/p/P52N8VA4)

  


[ **King Maric** ](https://linkto.run/p/RYVMFQP6)

  
  
[ **Razikale's Song** ](https://linkto.run/p/2UH3FV7B)  


 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ecclesiastes 9:5 is recited in this chapter.
> 
>  “For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing, and they have no more reward, for the memory of them is forgotten.”


	37. Sparring

[ **Jack and his crew** ](https://i.imgur.com/rmcR13l.png)

 

[ **Anaris** ](https://i.imgur.com/rmcR13l.png)

 

[ **King Maric** ](https://i.imgur.com/XbqeG0a.png)

 

[ **Razikale's Song** ](https://i.imgur.com/TjqTd6I.png)

 

* * *

 

**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 05:00 AM**

Varric, Isabela and Samson and I stay up all night, playing Diamondback, Wicked Grace and drinking games. Jack and his crew excuse themselves around midnight, claiming they have affairs to make in order and sleep to catch before they leave early in the morning. Corf long gave up on getting us out and tossed down his keys, shouting he expected a tally of consumed drinks in the morning and left, muttering about guests overstaying their welcome. Well into our cups, everyone just shrugged, and Isabela wriggled her way into my lap to get a peek at my deck of cards. I slammed a Ferelden whiskey to keep the flashbacks at bay, took Isabela’s offered elfroot and slammed some more.

 

It might not have been the best decision I’ve ever made, but fuck. Cullen might be dying, I’m the Prophet, and the mortal-probably-immortal bride of the Maker, an Elven Creator Evanuri (who only pretended to be gods, anyway) and a Tevinter Old God slash Archdemon. Also, I have two destroyed souls in my body (Razikale and Mythal respectively), my own soul plus Stannard who just won’t die or shut up.

 

My previous life wasn’t much better, having spent it for the first eighteen years without knowing why the fuck I was so fucked up, then finding out it was due to autism and ADHD and then finding out that my mother and stepfather did not give a fuck. Mom spent the entirety of my short life telling me that she knew me through and through, proceeding to do everything she should not have done. Such as telling me my feelings were wrong, my problems were all caused by me and my need for drama, and oh, yes, calling me as useless as my father.  I’m entitled to some fucking numbness for once in my second life.

 

“Woah, Woah, Firebreath, slow down,” Varric says, holding up his hands. “That glass has enough decorative cracks by now, it doesn’t need more.”

 

Where my fingers press against the glass, spiderwebs of cracks whip over the crystal surface. I frown at it. “Am I supposed to be able to crack that? Or was it diamond that’s supposedly indestructible?”

 

“What?” Varric peers at me over his deck of cards. His nose is red, so are his cheeks, all from putting away more alcohol than Isabela and I combined. Just once, he’d said. Only once he’d drink on our pace.

 

Yeah, we all know the plants have been drinking more than he has. Hehe. I lift my glass in a salute and slam whatever the fuck is inside down. It burns on my tongue. After a while, everything starts to taste the same. Samson smirks at me and elbows his glass of rum closer to me. Ah! A peace offering. I hold my hand up for a high five, he slaps his hand against mine, and I upend the glass in my mouth, shuddering at the taste.

 

“Sam, what the fuck is this?” Grimacing, I wiggle my fingers in pace with the general mortification that chases the drink through my body.

 

Samson laughs and shakes his head. “Something of Elegant’s. She’s got taste.” He licks his lips, shakes his head again, and staggers toward the bar for a refill, sweeping up my empty glass in the process.

 

Diamondback is easier than Wicked Grace. Less storytelling, more card-counting, and hunches. Let’s just say I got to kiss Varric once, and he’s cute when he’s flustered. Also, his chest hair is as soft as it looks. Also, I’m never doing this again, because Isabela is playing to see me naked. I don’t want to be naked. I don’t want a repeat of the orgy incident, either.

 

“Wow, wow, wow, what’s that about an orgy?” Varric takes his quill out from between his teeth and scribbles furiously on a new page of blank vellum.

 

“Fuck,” I say. Samson places a drink in front of me and lifts his eyebrows. I roll my eyes. “Not that I don’t think you’re hot, Sam, and not that I wouldn’t totally do you, but that was not meant for you. It’s just that I say stuff out loud at the moment, apparently. Which sucks. Especially when it’s about orgies and I should probably shut my mouth.”

 

“Maker’s breath, Meredith,” Samson smirks. “Look at you, all relaxed. We should get you drunk more often.”

 

I roll my eyes and lean my chin on the palm of my hand. Isabela stretches her arms above her head, causing her top to pull up and reveal her pierced belly button. The piercing is a little pendant in the shape of a dagger.

 

“That’s it, I’m out. Sorry, Varric. Even pirates need sleep. That and I need a good excuse to ditch Hawke tomorrow.”

 

Varric frowns. “Why is it that you always tag along when you expect the shiniest loot, but beg out whenever Hawke’s headed to the Qunari Compound?”

 

Isabela smirks and blows him a kiss, winking. “A girl never tells her secrets, Varric. Good ni- Good morning, I guess. Bye, sweet thing.” She ruffles Samson’s hair, which is ridiculously funny and taps me on the cheek. Bela is ridiculously agile and steady for a pirate who drank all night, and she wiggles her bottom at us. Varric chuckles, Samson almost pulls a muscle with how he’s looking at her ass over his shoulder, and I’m in the perfect vantage point to see everything without having to move a muscle.

 

I slap my deck of cards on the table and empty my glass, clinking it together with Sam’s. He smirks at me, baring straight white teeth. He’s hot. He was hotter when he donned Red Lyrium armor. I might have to ask around and see if someone can make it for him. For science. Yes. Science. Did you know that alcohol does not, in fact, kill brain cells? I can’t remember why. It’s true, though. Very fortunate, seeing as how my many escapades must’ve killed a bunch of brain cells already. Hey, maybe Stannard and I form one brain cell between the two of us.

 

Does she get drunk when I do? Hey, Stannard, where are you? I want to ask you embarrassing personal questions to see if you’ll answer. I know zilch about you. Damn, I probably know more about your dead sister than I know about you. That’s sad, actually. I don’t want to feel sad. Had too much booze to be sad. By the way, if Isabela’s ditching us, it’s definitely time for me to stop drinking and start adulting. I hate adulting. Can’t I just be a cat like Loki and do cat things? I’d go live with Anders, so the refugees don’t eat me. Oh, right, next agenda point: feed refugees.

 

Speaking of refs. I should get ahead of myself and have caches with blankets and food placed around the Hinterlands. From my comfortable position of the Gallows, yes.

 

Turning to Varric, I sweep my cards into a stack. “Hey, Varric, you’ve got a spy-network, right?”

 

“That I do, Firebreath. You need something, my network will deliver. The more illegal, the better.” He steeples his fingers together and eyes me. “So, what do you need? Wait, don’t tell me. New robes for the mages. New staves. A secret, new kind of Lyrim that’s more powerful. New glowstones in screaming colors. Quills, parchments, the newest perfumes from Orlais, a Rivaini Seer-stone from the Seers. Potions from the Avvar. The lost ax of Tyrdda Bright-Axe?”

 

“Staff. Tyrdda was a fire mage.” I roll the empty glass under my palm. Varric blinks at me.

 

“Shit. Well, that’s new. That brother Genitivi of Leliana’s is probably rolling over in his grave.” He taps his quill against the table before scribbling something down in a flurry of movement. Presumably about Tyrdda’s new status as a mage. “Plus all the Chantry mothers that are having a heart-attack right now. Ha! I want to be there when you tell Choir Boy. It’s about time someone saw him sweat.”

 

Shrugging, I nod. “Sure, you can be there. Oh, whatever. The first Inquisitor? Ameridan? Mage. And elf. His lover was a Somniari, too.”

 

Varric’s quill slips and draws a mad little line over the vellum. “Maker’s breath, Firebreath. Huh, that’s quite the mouthful. Go back to the start. The first Inquisitor…?”

 

“Elven mage.” I make sure to speak slowly and to articulate clearly, which isn’t easy when you’re drunk. And high on elfroot. But hey, the ache in my heart has dulled, so I’m a-okay. Until the inevitable crash. That better be when I’m safe and sound inside the Gallows and not, say, in the middle of Hightown. Maybe I should book a room in the Hanged Man - a.k.a. Here - to sleep off my hangover.

 

“His lover was a Dreamer. Fuck. Ameridan’s still a sitting duck beneath that dragon. Something something Wintersbreath. I should probably do something about that. Always got crushed at that point, though.” I scratch between my shoulder blades. “Fuck. Hey Sam, you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

 

I proceed to groan in ecstasy when Sam does scratch my back and giggle when I return the favor. Life is fun. And Sam’s hot. So it Varric’s chest hair. And Bela’s leather everything.

 

Hawke’s narcissism renders her level of attractiveness shot, drowned, strangled, buried and cremated. Sorry, Malcolm. Your daughter is a self-centered bitch. God. You couldn’t have made her when you were in a sarcastic mood? Purple Hawke is best Hawke. Duh.

 

Wait, am I narcissistic for believing I’m better than Hawke? Narcissists don’t wonder if they’re narcissists, right? Was Stannard a narcissist? I mean, she thought her Red Lyrium sword was a gift from the Maker. She believed the Maker was guiding her into greatness.

 

Kirkwall’s statues did kind of come to life at her command, so… never mind. Forget I said anything. I crawl out of my chair and wobble toward the door, freeze, look over my shoulder and shrug. “I’m outta here, guys. Good morning to you.”

 

“Wait! You can’t just drop the elven bomb on the first Inquisition and leave like that! Give me something to write!” Varric shouts.

 

Flashing him a grin, I shrug. “Write about this: he venerated both the Maker and the Elven Creator Gods, and he fought Hakkon Wintersbreath, a demonic god drawn into this world by his followers. Wintersbreath possessed a dragon. Inky fought the dragon, used Time Magic to lock them both in place, and spends the rest of all eternity peering up at a set of wicked toothed jaws that move an inch or so each year. Go ahead and call it ‘Meredith Stannard to the rescue,’ because as soon as I’m able, I’ll drag his ass out of Hakkon’s path and slay the wicked beast before he can say winter is coming.”

 

After I’ve got Kirkwall sorted out. Sorry, Ameridan. But hey, you lived until Dragon Age 9:41 on your own. I’ll take me a few years to make sure your body doesn’t evaporate into thin air. Oh, yes. The Chantry will pay for their blatant lies about elven history. And Elvhen history.

 

May the Dread Wolf guide my step, and the odds be ever in my favor.

  


**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 06:00 AM**

 

“Nov- Meredith!” Thrask shouts when I ascend the steps toward the Templar Barracks. Shit. Can’t hide behind that potted plant because it’s not big enough. Can’t hide behind that crate because it’s not big enough. Can’t hide behind that Tranquil, because he’s thin as a stalk and not big enough. Can’t hide behind Feynriel, because he’s not big enough. Can’t hide behind his mother, either. Shame.

 

“Hide me,” I whisper to Sebastian while I crouch behind an archery target. Puzzled, Sebastian frowns at me. An arrow thwangs into the thin wooden target, and I flinch. Sebastian’s eyes tear from me, and presumably, he smiles at Evalina, who’s putting another arrow on his bow.

 

“Well done. I wonder why the Chantry hasn’t done this before, as your magic helps improve your aim. And your fire arrows are quite impressive, as well.”

 

Oh, Sebastian. I could listen to you all day. Even a manifesto on the life and habitat of dust mites would do. Do they come in colonies? Groups? Packs? Do they have hierarchies and a queen mite, like bees and ants? Are they solitary? Do they bite heads off their partners when they mate? Do they even mate?

 

Gah, brain. Focus. Hiding. Thrask. “You’re teaching Evalina archery?” I ask. Sebastian blushes a beautiful red. Smirking, I rub my fingers together.

 

“Ask her out. A night away from the kids. Take her on a moonlight stroll, or something.”

 

Frowning, he peers down at me. “On the Wounded Coast, with the Tal-Vashoth and mercenaries?”

 

Eh. Maybe not. “She might be in for an adventure. Oh, a friendly reminder: no chastity vows.”

 

With his hands on his Andraste crotch belt (hands on his hips, obviously, not on his crotch), Sebastian makes his way toward Evalina. “Allow me to fetch arrows with ice runes from the armory.” With a slight smile, he glances over his shoulder.

 

“Thrask! If it is Meredith you seek, I believe she is checking the sustainability of our archery targets.”

 

I scurry back, tucking my arms against my chest and crouching deeper. Forget my earlier statement about Sebastian’s voice. Fuck you, Sebastian.

 

“Would you be willing to join me on patrol on the Wounded Coast this evening, Evalina?”

 

Double fuck you, Sebastian.

 

“I was hoping you’d ask.” Evalina’s voice drifts on the wind.

 

Triple fuck you?

 

Thrask’s shadow falls over me. I peer up at him with a grimace. Frowning, he quirks an eyebrow at me while rubbing his hands together.  “Ah, there you are.”

 

With a sigh, I take his extended hand and let him pull me up. “Fine, let’s get a move on with training, then. Ugh.”

 

He strokes through his beard with a leather gloved hand, thick eyebrows furrowed into a frown. “Why do you hate it so much?”

 

I sigh and shake my head, tugging at hook on a fingernail. “Same reason as always. Two left hands, two left legs, perfectionist mind, can’t recall two steps in the right fucking sequence and keep doing shit I’m not supposed to do with a sword. Like leaning on it and almost cutting off my own foot. I’m practically a toddler, and I hate it. I hate-”

 

Myself. I swallow the word back down.

 

‘Don’t bother explaining it to her, she won’t get it, anyway.’

 

Thanks, Mom. I hate you, too.

  


Now’s not the time for old insecurities. The imposter syndrome is legit for me, now, though. More than any psychologist could ever dream of. And I’m doing kind of all right, yes? Letting Elsa and Niana pick up my slack is a valid way of ruling a city? Right?

 

No, it is not. Tears burn in my eyes, and I blink them away and pinch the webbing between my thumb and index finger. You know, if you spread your fingers until they feel the joints are going to crack open, you can see the inheritance from our water-turned land-creature ancestors. My lips curl into a smile. It’s what I like to think, anyway. I guess I’ll never know. And evolution doesn’t apply to Thedas, either. Yeah, okay, that’s a lie. Kossith =/= today’s Qunari. It’s the scholarly term and pretty outdated.

 

Yes, Squish totally lectured me on all my wrong assumptions about the Qun. Deserved it, I guess.

 

“Look at me,” Thrask says. I clamp my teeth on my bottom lip and meet his eyes. They’re a striking color of bright blue. Brown hair, blue eyes. One of the seven unique beauties. That’s what someone in middle school told me, anyway. Don’t bet your fortune on it.

 

Spreading his fingers, Thrask shakes out his hands, simultaneously shaking his head. Classic Bioware for disagreement. I raise my eyebrows. His fingers thrum against the sheath at his hip. “You’re bound to sell yourself short if you compare yourself to Templars who have been in training since they could walk. Tell you what, Alistair hasn’t had real Templar training in over a year. You can spar with him.”

 

My cheeks hurt from smiling, and I blink away tears again, inclining my head.

 

“That’s perfect. Thank you.” He flushes a pretty red when I give him a peck on the cheek, clasping his shoulder. “I’ll go find him now.”  
  


**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 12:00 PM**

 

Legs spread to shoulder width. Alistair blushed a pretty red when he had to adjust my legs by putting his hands on my hips. Especially when I smirked and did a little hip wiggle. Hehehe, I’m allowed to have fun, and no-one was looking anyway. Right hand goes guard left hand goes pommel, the sword goes shoulder. Left foot first, blade forward, hip to the right, rest of body follows. Swords meet in a clang of steel, left foot and right arm are one as they move forward, invert momentum when the sword reaches Alistair’s throat. There. A block and counter.

 

“Good,” Alistair says, his brow creased in concentration. The leather of his gloves creaks when he adjusts his grip on pommel and guard. “Now again.”

 

Feet to shoulders. Alistair adjusts his grip again. My eyes latch onto the fingers of his right hand. Injury. Weak spot. Advantage. Left hand guard, right hand pommel. Right foot forward, swords meet, toss my weight to the left instead of the right, shove my hands to the right, counterbalance bursts into a frightening careening momentum, Alistair’s index finger, middle finger and ring finger bend the wrong way, and he screams and drops his sword, clutching his fingers. I level my sword at his throat while he breathes against the pain, sweat dripping down his temple.

 

“You’re dead,” I say, my lips curling into a smile. “And I’m going to get you a healing potion. Stay.”

 

Alistair pulls his glove off with his teeth, rubbing over his fingers. “I could just go to the Clinic, y’know. Anders is nice. Rambles about mage rights, but he’s nice. And Cullen’s there. Maker, I wish…” he trails off, shakes his head, and toes his sword away.

 

I tilt my head to the side and blow out a slow breath, releasing the death grip on my sword. Crouching down, I let it rest on the ground and pull my hands out from under the hilt. My fingers pop and crack when I tug on them to chase the cramp away. “You’re not going to the Clinic. Not alone.”

 

“Hey now! Just because I lost this match-”

 

“And the one before, and the one before that, and the first one.” I wiggle my fingers and curl them into fists, in and out, in and out. Poke the blister on the outside of my index finger and hiss at the burn. I should be wearing gloves, but damn, they block sensory input. I need the sensory information, damn it.

 

“That’s not fair. You looked as well.” He presses his lips together, a blush forming on his cheeks.

 

“Alistair. Seriously. It was a squirrel. You lost because you saw a squirrel.”

 

He narrows his eyes. “You don’t want to know how many Blighted squirrels we saw. In peace-”

 

“Vigilance. I’ll be fair. It was a nice squirrel. Nice red plumage.” I smile and tilt my head up at the sky. Well, at the clouds. There’s nothing but gray and white clouds. I miss the sun. Even though we had sun yesterday. Damn. Can’t wait until the warmer season. The smile drops from my face. “I’m sorry about Duncan, Alistair.”

 

Alistair’s sword clangs back on the ground, and he stares up at me, eyes wide and face ashen. Worrying his bottom lip, he wrings his hands together and slowly rises from his crouch. “Thanks,” he mutters, averting his eyes the ground. “I think we’re done for today. Should get a healing potion for this.”

 

Me and my fucking mouth.

 

I reach out for him, fingers twitching to grab his arm, but pull back at the last minute. If he needs time alone, he gets time alone. In the slack Alistair left, Stannard steps forward and bares her incorporeal version of Certainty. “You’re not done yet.” Her lips twist into a scowl, her blue eyes narrow. I crouch and reach for the practice sword, but her foot crashes down on the steel, and I raise my eyebrows. She narrows her eyes even further. “We are not using dulled swords. Certainty requires finesse, discipline, and perfection.”

 

And certainty. Ha ha ha. Fine. The left side of the courtyard is empty, the right side of the courtyard is empty, and there’s no-one behind or in front of us either. Alistair’s already inside, presumably in search of a healing potion and a hot bath. Damn. I could do with a hot bath. Rotating my shoulder blades and twisting my upper body to the left and the right, I wave Stannard off when she sighs in exasperation. Her right foot taps on the ground and her left hand taps against the pommel of her sword, and I roll my eyes, bend at the waist and touch my toes. The expected retaliation of hamstrings that are too short does not follow, and I smirk. Stannard huffs out a breath, rolls her own eyes, and surveys the courtyard with narrowed eyes.

 

“Okay, here goes nothing.” Sword on the right side of my body, hand around pommel hand around the guard, feet at shoulder width. Stannard’s bare fingers turn white with cold, breath fogs in the air around her mouth.

 

If the movie After. Life has thought me anything…

 

Stannard jumps forward with a battle cry, Certainty a red streak of ethereal lyrium. My own blade crashes into hers, a shockwave knocks the wind out of my lungs, icy coldness prickles on my cheeks and forehead. Dodge, roll, invert momentum. Parry, tug, slide blade backward to circumvent her trapping maneuver. One, up. Two, right. Three, forward. Four, back and left. Five, drop and roll and get a poorly done barbers job for my coupe de disaster. Six, tap tap tap tap tap smash hop tap tap tap kick to the nethers ha!

 

Stannard scrambles to get out of reach of my knee, I discard my sword and deliver a solid punch to her stomach. She doubles over, I hop back to retreat, my left wrist doesn’t follow the rest of my body, trapped in Stannard’s iron grip. With her blue eyes burning and her lips curled up, she screwdrivers my wrist. I stand my ground. She narrows her eyes.

 

Fuck you, Stannard. Classic move. I’m made of tougher stuff than your novices. Her foot stomps down on my right foot, and I scream, my knees give way and hit the ground, Stannard’s fingers tightening around my wrist. I almost wrenched my own shoulder out of its socket. A solid kick to my head sends me sprawled on my back, my lungs compress, and I cough and gasp in air, only to cough again, clutching at my burning chest. It’s as if the punches to my chest don’t stop, even though Stannard calmly picks up her own blade, exits my vision on the right side, and…

 

Oh. Despite the aching knee, I force myself up, gravel cutting into the palm of my left hand. I grit my teeth until my molars ache in protest, groan and pull my legs into a low crouch. Stannard’s shadow stretches over me, blade at my neck seconds before it rests on the back of my neck. My hands lay flat on the ground, the wind tousles my hair, caressing my cheek, tears of anger burn in my eyes. I set my jaws. Certainty’s heat flickers in my neck, warm as a kindled flame. Its sharp edge razes the skin that forms the runway to the brain stem.

 

With a sigh, Stannard sheathes her sword. Crisp air nips at the nape of my neck and I breathe out an inaudible sigh of relief. With clanging armor, she doubles back and scowls down at me, brows furrowed, and arms crossed over her chest. “You know when you’re beaten. Good. No-one should face their death with shit and piss pouring down their legs.” Her fingers drum a staccato on her bicep.

 

Gee, thanks. I chuckle, shake my head and grit my teeth against the strain in my knee. The cartilage pops and the pain lets out when I press myself up from my legs rather than scrambling to my feet like a drunken sailor. I lace my fingers together and raise my arms above my head until my shoulders pop. My elbow pops when I lower my arms to my sides, Stannard grimaces, and I smirk in satisfaction.

 

“Old age,” I quip. Stannard narrows her eyes at me, lines around her mouth set. Damn, hard audience. With her chin slightly tucked, she turns her back to me and strides toward the metal stands where weapons wait for use.

 

She’s going to toss something at my head, isn’t she?

 

“No. Simply raising the stakes. For motivational purposes.” Her eyes are crazed, the bloodshot white a sharp contrast to our deep striking blue irises. My aluminum lyrium-infused staff sails through the air, and I catch it in both hands. A static shock burns, imploding at my fingertips. A wave of energy thunderbolts through my muscles and my lips part into a smirk, cheeks bunching up.

 

I’ll take electricity over giant spiders, any day.

 

Stannard bends at the waist, rummaging through the stands, blonde waves obscuring one side of her face. My fingers itch to grab scissors, shear them off, and have some Orlesian barber turn it into a wig. With my luck, they’re more like to disperse in a flash of yellow light, incorporeal as Stannard is.

 

Is she really dead? Dead people don’t exhale air that fogs, yes? Their fingers don’t turn white from cold or strain. I narrow my eyes and gape at her when she straightens, two one-hander axes in her hands. Grinning, she says: “I hope you know how to use that stick of yours.”

 

I don’t, not really. Not out of the Fade, anyway.

 

But I didn’t equip my warriors and rogues with axes for shits and giggles, either. My combat plans existed out of zilch tactical stuff, dragging abilities to the quickbar and using my fancy gamer mouse to repeatedly cycle through 1 - 9 until the battlefield was sprinkled with fallen foes. I had four people in my party, Stannard is just one person, and I have the entire courtyard to use to my advantage.

 

“Stand still!” She can snarl all she wants, but I’m one agile fucker, especially since I dressed in my second skin today. Eh, that’d be the armor I ripped from the Fade when we were chasing after Feynriel. It’s light as a sheet, yielding and plying to every bend and roll I make, and still offers enough protection for Stannard’s sharp axes to glance off with an unholy screech.

 

When she spins around her own axis like a dervish of death, one of the blows knocks me backward, and I pull back, gripping my staff at the lower end and… well, I randomly stab at her like a maniac. Hey, if it works, right? Stannard hisses when I manage to land a blow at her elbow, one axe slips from her fingers and, in a move that’s either ridiculously awesome or suicidal, I swipe it out of the air like a cat swiping at a feather toy. I can’t help but toss it into the air in a mad spin, only to catch it again.

 

Stannard grits her teeth, wrapping her hands around the handle of her axe, raises it above her head and chucks the Maker-forsaken thing at my head. The muscles in my arms overstretch and burn when I yank my staff in front me, my head turned away, and my eyes shut firm. The blade of the axe hits the surface, and I bat it down with a battle roar reverberating through my own skull. Sparks fly when the axe hits the ground, flopping back and forth until it lays still, and it disappears from my side when I approach Stannard, staff aimed at her throat, molars grinding and teeth bared into a grimace.

 

Stannard raises her hands in surrender, and I keep my staff at her throat, slowly advancing. For every step forward, she takes one backward, until she’s pressed into the wall and my fingers ache from the death grip I have on the staff.

 

“Say it,” I spit out. Stannard’s lips curl up, and I slam my staff into the mortar next to her neck. She flinches, and I smirk, laying the tip of my staff against the hollow of her collarbone. “Well?”

 

Stannard rolls her eyes. “I yield. Happy now?” Her tone couldn’t be more blah.

 

I snort and roll my eyes heavenward. “I’ll be happy when I beat you ten.”

 

She frowns. “Ten out of what?”

 

I tap my staff against the ground and prod at new blisters forming on my fingertips, hissing air through my teeth. Yep. That’s going to need an elfroot compress. Would Marethari have the Clan’s leather workers make gloves if I asked nicely enough?

 

“Ten out of five.” I laugh at Stannard’s suspicious side-eyed glance and raised eyebrows.

 

“Aha!” Zevran’s triumphant voice cuts right through my ego-trip. Stannard’s lips curl into a wicked smirk. I whirl around and clamp down on the urge to stab Zevran then and there. He’d just zip out of view and knock me off my feet with a well-aimed swipe of his feet, and then sit on my chest until I yielded or something silly like that. “So the charming Darktown Healer spoke the truth, then, when he said our charming Knight-Commander haunts… our charming Knight-Commander.” He raises his hands, palms my way as if he’s some magician with a parlor trick.

 

I roll my eyes and chuckle. A look over my shoulder gets rewarded by a chagrined Stannard glaring daggers at Zevran. Hey, at least she’s not glaring at me for a change.

 

Also… Damn my crazy mind, I can’t pass this up. “Everything you’ve heard? Completely true.”

 

Zevran throws back his head and laughs, white teeth glinting in the drab gray Cloudreach light. He’s still wiping tears from the corner of his eyes when he clicks his tongue and says: “Does this mean I am invited to the weekly orgy?”

 

GAH. Not what I meant. Fuck you, Hawke, Isabela, Corf.

  
  
  


Stannard practically chokes on air, and I facepalm, dragging my palm over my head and kneading my fingers into my jawbone. “There are no orgies in the Circle. Or the Barracks. You’ll have more luck tripping on an orgy in the Blooming Rose.”

 

Jeez, my fuck you list is getting long. And that’s without Corypheus, Red Templar Samson, Calpernia, Venatori and Lord Seekers Lambert & Lucius (they should start a law firm. Legit.), oh and Vivienne.

 

Frowning, I brush my fingers over my chin. I da lot of people, aren’t I?

 

Right. Karras. Alrik. Unnamed Templar woman #1, three Templar men, and who knows how many others. Maker. I bite my tongue hard enough to start myself out of the dark thoughts and flinch. Zevran tilts his head to the side and smiles lazily. “Pity that.” He tosses one axe in the air, throws the other axe to his now empty right hand, and catches the airborne axe with his left hand.

 

Excuse me while I pick my jaws and eyeballs off the floor. “God, Zev.” I shudder at the sight. “Please don’t juggle with weapons. Someone could get hurt.”

 

With a smirk, he plucks an axe out of the air and flings it straight at Stannard, who shrieks like a girl and abruptly closes her mouth when the axe flies through the dispersing energy that reforms into her chest when the axe has passed clean through. I laugh and clap my hand over my mouth, but she still glares daggers at me, and then at Zevran, before vanishing from view. Just like that. One second she’s glaring at me, the next there’s only empty space.

 

“Nice one. Hey, want to spar?”

 

He raises his eyebrows at me. “A rogue against a warrior seems a little unfair, no?”

 

I shrug and tap my fingers on my staff. “I’m still learning, so believe me, you’ll have me on my back in seconds.”

 

“If you put it that way…” He wiggles his eyebrows, eyes glinting.

 

Ugh. I roll my eyes. “I meant- Oh nevermind. Just grab an axe and hack at me.”

 

**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 16:00 PM**

 

My back muscles want to kill me for twisting every which way, springing out of Zev’s trajectory, hop-scotching out of reach from axes and daggers, Tripping over my own feet in my rush to get the fuck out of the way from the killing machine that is Zevran plus two axes plus two daggers plus a bow and arrow. Fuck.

 

By the time he pulled his bow from his back, I had welcomed the expected reprieve. Until he aimed at the sky, firing arrow after arrow like a Paganini with a deathly edge. The next few minutes were spent curled up into a ball on the ground, armored arms twisted over my head and flinching at every arrow that thumped on my armor and harmlessly glanced off.

 

I’m guilty of raving at him like a frothing maniac after that. All he said was: “Good. Now you will know what to do, while everyone else is struck down.”  

 

He does have a point. I might have pulled at my hair and thrown my hands in the air. “Is this what you and Elsa do on the weekends? What the fuck, Zev?”

 

To which Zevran slung his bow on his back, retrieved his arrows and smirked with his hands on his hips. “No. Elsa favors the naked air when we… exercise.”

 

My eye still twitches at the mental image of a naked Elsa firing arrows at Zev. It’s a miracle he still has eyes, considering. Oh god, I don’t mean Elsa’s ugly, I mean he’d be staring at her so she’d have a perfect shot at his eyes. Gah. Elsa’s pretty in her own way. Despite- No, fuck you, mind, she’s pretty with Brand, not despite it. Not that I would refuse her if she wanted it removed. If only they’d Tranquilized her like Cullen…

 

Cullen! Of course! Alistair wanted to go to the Clinic to see Cullen. Gah, I’m an idiot. Groaning, I slap my palm over my eyes.

 

“Ah, excuse me… I- I’m looking for Knight-C-Commander M-Meredith Stannard?”

 

I drag my hand down and turn around, raising my eyebrows at the elf who blushes under my gaze. Elf wrings his hands together, gnashing the many gold and steel rings on his fingers against each other. Two steel bands encase his wrists, and a necklace of steel links disappears beneath his god-ugly orange trenchcoat, offset with shrieking green squares. Multiple piercings catch the light in his right ear, and a stylized dragon contrasts sharply with the pale skin of his neck, the color of the tattoo matching the steel tone of the piercings.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Magister Alexius and Altus Pavus have docked with the _Pride of Amaranthine_ and await your presence in the harbor.”

 

* * *

 

[ **Dorian** ](https://linkto.run/p/4Z2X6SLC)

 

[ **Alexius** ](https://linkto.run/p/QKP5FA9T)

 

[ **Merethilda visits the Black Emporium for weapons for the dragonhunter expedition. Which two items does she take?** ](https://linkto.run/p/CJWTY5K7)

 

[ **What does Merethilda promise Xenon the Antiquarian in return for the weapons?** ](https://linkto.run/p/62GMFVNL)  


[ **Do Dorian and Alexius tag along for the dragon hunt?** ](https://linkto.run/p/W87YX2VK)

 

[ **Does Merethilda consult Lord Woolsley?** ](https://linkto.run/p/3MHEPKDM)

 

[ **Does Merethilda borrow Druffy?** ](https://linkto.run/p/RLJMFQP6)

 

[ **Does Merethilda seek out Scout Lace Harding?** ](https://linkto.run/p/SLU0CN9R)

  
  
  
  
  
  



	38. Fauxscripted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poll results for the King Maric poll led to the results of the Anaris poll. Sorry for the scare, guys. Maric is nowhere near Corypheus’s prison. The poll link has been corrected.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I am in the process of putting together a timeline for this work. Due to me mistaking Wilmod’s quest for an Act 2 quest, TAC currently exists in a matrix dimension of Dragon Age 30/31/32. I also need to adjust a few things in the canon timeline (gasp) for everything to go smoothly.   
>   
> No poll results were used in this chapter.  
>   
> [ Here is the current number](https://i.imgur.com/V44Nc37.png)  
>  of poll results and plot points that have yet to be implemented into TAc and its sequel(s). I meticulously keep track of them all for obvious reasons. Also, in the future, certain chapters will be dedicated to the readers who have suggested a myriad of ideas for this story. It means the world to me that you all come back every week to comment, encourage, vote and kudo TAC.  
>   
> ‘Glitches’ in this chapter are intentional. 

The poisonous bug color pattern should’ve rung a bell. I dressed my mage Lavellan in those robes! It even has the exact same coloration… 

  
  


“Is that Highever weave, by chance?” I point at his trenchcoat. Eridimus frowns down at himself and meets my eyes with furrowed brows. 

  
  


He tilts his head to side and purses his lips. “Possibly. Magister Pavus did order a new shipment of Highever cotton in Kingsway. Is your interest esthetical or business in nature?” 

  
  


Blink. Blink. Blink. Okay. Okay. This elf is a slave. Okay. It’s merely their culture. He’s well dressed, as long as the one judging this isn’t named Vivienne de Fer. And if you’re not colorblind, because then he’d probably be running around in a peanut-butter colored trenchcoat. Yikes. Nevermind, Vints have transcended us all when it comes to fashion. Let’s just leave it at that.

  
  


“Business.” The word tastes bitter on my tongue, and I have to spit it out. Still, having some form of connection to House Pavus will come in handy later. If that means I have to wear bright colors for the next ten years, then so be it. Besides, Stannard’s wardrobe can use a smidgen of color. 

  
  


“Do you trade in brightly colored paint as well?” I ask dryly. 

  
  


Elf’s brows furrow even deeper. “House Pavus does maintain connections with Orlesian artists, yes. If you are interested in…” 

  
  


I raise my hand. Elf shuts his mouth and steeples his fingers. Narrowing my eyes, I put my hands on my hips. “I think I’ll discuss that with Altus Pavus. After I’ve given him a piece of my mind about slavery.” 

  
  


“I see. You disapprove.” He crosses his arms over his chest and tilts back his head so he can look up at me. “The slaves of House Pavus are treated well, Knight-Commander Stannard. Families are housed in small apartments designed to fit their needs. Those who show inclinations for scholarly pursuits are given a chance to receive an education in their free time. We are fed, allowed hobbies and allowed approximately six to eight hours of sleep every night. Those of us assigned to heavy labor are seen to by Tevinter healers once a year.” 

  
  


My lips part and my tongue curls into the beginnings of a reprieve. Sharply, Elf lifts his hand and raises his eyebrows, his lips curling up into a triumphant smile. 

  
  


“On First Day, Wintersend, Summerday, All Soul’s Day and Satinalia, each slave of the Pavus household receives a silver coin to be spent or saved by choice. I suspect that is more than your Darktown inhabitants can dream of receiving.” 

  
  


I blow out my cheeks, hands curled into fists and pressed to my sides. “Can you buy your freedom by saving up those silvers?” 

  
  


Elf steps back, his hand pressed against his forehead. With a sigh of exasperation, he shakes his head. 

  
  


“Meredith, with all due respect… if a slave bought his or her freedom, they would belong to the Soporati class. Unable to rise to a higher rank in the Imperium than their mothers and fathers. You must understand-” 

  
  


I snap my fingers and slap my fist against my palm, then wag my pointer finger at him. 

  
  


“But! If the slaves of House Pavus pursued higher education, they would rise to be better merchants. The better they are at their trade or craft, the more money and publicity they made.” 

  
  


“Exactly. I’m surprised, Knight-Commander. You do understand. I’m glad we could reach an agreement in this.” He looks up at me with a genuine smile, arms falling loosely to his sides. 

  
  


Jaw, meet the floor. 

  
  


For the love of the Maker, I walked into that one with eyes wide open, didn’t I? 

  
  


“Okay, fine, then. But I’m still introducing my fist to someone’s face for this. Preferably a Tevene face. “What’s your name, again?”

  
  


“Eridimus, Knight-” 

  
  


“Meredith. My name is Meredith. Lead the way, Eridimus. The sooner this is over with, the better.” 

  
  


“As you wish, Meredith.” 

  
  


Yeah, yeah. 

  
  
  


**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 16:00 PM**

 

Eridimus sports a pair of leather, pointy-toed shoes. Their surface gleans. Okay, Grethilda, stop staring at the shoes and get your act together. What are you going to when faced with two slave-bearing Tevene men? Besides punching them in the face. Or, after you’ve punched them off their socks. When they’re done kicking your ass with their superior Tevene Circle educations. 

  
  


At least The Most Holy And Revered House of Alexius and The Most Holy And Revered House of Pavus don’t practice blood magic… except for… Magister Alexius and Magister Pavus. To make his gay son not gay. Eh. Might want to steer clear of Daddy Pavus. Don’t want him to get the idea that bisexuality needs be stamped down, too. Or pansexuality. Or asexuality. Quick, somebody, hide the Tranquil! They refuse to reproduce when left to their own devices and are therefore faulty! 

  
  


Eridimus’s shoes steer him around puddles and muck and mud as if they’re leading the elf instead of the other way around. A small heel clicks and clacks against Kirkwall’s cobblestones. He dodges a bigger puddle by hopping on a small island with his pointy toes, and I’ll be damned if that isn’t a smile-to-be in the corners of his lips. 

  
  


We pass Lowtown’s market stalls, flanked by tall, dilapidated houses. A bald dwarf with watery brown eyes, a greying mustache and a beard that’s probably twice his length pokes his head out of a window and peers down, squinting. 

  
  


“Helga! Helgaaa! damn, Helgaaaaa! Nugshit. Has anyone seen my wife? Her name is-” 

  
  


“Helga! Her name is Helga! I scream her name when we rut, you son of a deepstalker! I’m trying to take a nap!” 

  
  


I crane my head and spin a circle. Where the fuck is that guy? He’s not on the ground, and he can hear Husbando (well, they can listen to Husbando all the way in the Vinmark prison, so nevermind that), so he has to be nearby. 

  
  


Husbando frowns, stroking his beard. “‘Oy. Why are you taking a nap when yer rutting my wife?” 

  
  


I walk into Eridimus’s back and blow out a breath, staggering backward with my hands held up. “Sorry, didn’t realize you’d stopped.” 

  
  


Eridimus tilts his head to the side, gazing up. Presumably at Husbando. “Curious…” Eridimus mutters, before lifting one shoulder in a half shrug and picking up the pace again. 

  
  


“Bah, man. We’re done. VinmShe’s rutting my sons and my mabari!” 

  
  


“You’re so blighted awful she’s rutting your hound and sons? What did ya do, stick your sausage in  ‘er nose or s’mthing?” Husbando asks with wide eyes. 

  
  


“Hello, dwarf trying to write over here. I just ended a paragraph with ‘sausage in her nose’ because of you two. It’s not even about romance, it’s culinary… nevermind. What does a dwarf have to do for some peace and quiet around here?” Varric shouts. We’re past the Hanged Man, and I don’t recall seeing him outside, but he has to be. Unless Husbando over there can be heard all the way inside. 

  
  


“Rut my wife!” “Rut his wife!” 

  
  


I bark out a laugh and slap my palm over my mouth.

  
  


Varric lets out a weary sigh, presumably before headdesking. “Forget I asked…” 

  
  


“Varric!” I shout over my shoulder. “You’re welcome in my office at any time!” 

  
  


“Can my wife come with? And this fucker’s hound and sons?”

  
  


“Y’all need Andraste!” I shout in their general direction. 

  
  


“Who’s Andraste? That yer wife?”

  
  


“No you nughumper, that’s a Blooming Rose girl!” 

  
  


“What’s a rose gonna do to help this guy rut my wife, Missy?”

  
  


“That’s a whore, you dumbass!” 

  
  


Husbando squints, disappears from view, reappearing to climb out his window, hanging off the ledge with specters balancing on his nose. “‘Nay. That’s the knight-commander.”

  
  


Dear Jesus, today a dwarf almost toppled from his window to confirm that I am not, in fact, a whore. It was odd but flattering.

  
  


“Shitstain. Sorry, Commander. Didn’t mean to call ya a whore. Even though most of the Templ-” Twang, twang. Thud, thud.  “YEHIEEEEEE-” 

  
  


“Go ahead, finish that sentence. Bianca can’t wait to meet your sausage.” Varric’s voice bounces off the houses. 

  
  


“‘Oy, now you’re offering him yer wify, ey? Why him an’ not me?” 

  
  


“Ask her yourself. Maybe you’ll get an answer out of her.” Varric’s sigh is wistful this time. 

  
  


Varric… 

  
  


I slow down, twisting around. Should I go back and buy Varric a drink? Tell him to give Bianca the middle finger and find someone worthy of his affection? We all hear those words and ignore them, convinced we’re going to be the exception to the rule, but...

  
  


A book slams shut, a chair screeches over the ground. “Sod this, I’m done for today. Sorry, Hawke.” 

  
  


Eridimus leans against the wall at the end of the street that leads out into the Docks. I evade Vincentio and his alleged Antivan goods. Guy only sells Ferelden stuff.  I’d be better off giving Zevran puppy-dog eyes and borrowing his boots if I really want Antivan leather. Though Zevran is liable to mistake my request for leather and shove a whip into my hands. Heh. Can you imagine me strolling through Lowtown dressed in leather and armed with a whip? I can. Too bad I’d probably miss my enemies by a mile, the backlash stripping the skin off my legs. 

  
  


“Oh come on, Varric. What about Hard in Hightown? Murder, she committed? Just because you have relationship issues doesn’t mean-” 

  
  


That’s it! My side twinges when I whirl around midstep. Eridimus is right behind me, one eyebrow raised and a grin on his face. Ugh. I shake my head and press on, eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line, teeth grinding together. My nails cut into my palms, my knuckles whiten. A hopeful merchant steps into my path and retreats, his hands up and eyes wide, letting out an uncomfortable chuckle. 

  
  


“Who has to die, Knight-Commander?” Zevran asks. I give him a side-eyed glance, lips twisting into a grimace.

  
  


“Fasta vass!” Eridimus presses his hand against his chest, stepping into my path and with wide eyes. 

 

“A Crow? And he works for you?” Shit, brake, brake! One boot comes to a halt in front of his shoe, another is frozen halfway down on its way to stomp on his toes. His eyes flit from Zevran to me, forehead creasing, one hand fisted in his trenchcoat and the other pressed against his chest. 

  
  


Zevran side-steps him, ducks beneath Eridimus’s rushing fist, grabs his wrist and throws him over his shoulder just like that. Eridimus hits the ground and rolls with his momentum, pulling two daggers from God knows where. 

  
  


He presses himself off the ground, daggers ready at his sides. “Your kind sold me into slavery.” 

  
  


“My friend, surely we can talk about this. With a fine brandy to temper your rage, no?” Zevran’s fingers curl around his belt, his eyebrows raised, his lips curling into a lazy smile. There’s no sheath on his breeches or sheaths on his back, but he’s probably armed to the teeth nonetheless. 

  
  


Eridimus taps the hilts of his daggers and white-hot flames roar to life along the blades. Merchants scream and duck behind their stalls, while the patrons scream and press together in their haste to exit through a narrow street. An old man is shoved off his feet, hits the ground, and howls when his fingers crunch under a dwarf’s leather boot. Eridimus leaves a path of flame in his wake when he lunges for Zevran. 

  
  


Zevran rolls underneath a stall, away from the scorching flames.  “I guess that’s a no, then. Ah. If it is me you want to hurt, simply asking would’ve done the trick.”

  
  


“Your Crows didn’t ask. They sent me to Tevinter to be cannon fodder for the Qunari!” One dagger describes an arc through the air, aimed for Zevran’s heart, but a woman dragging a girl behind her catches the blow. With wide eyes, Zevran catches the woman and lowers her down, sinking to his knees. She clutches at the dagger between her ribs, eyes wide, mouth opening wide in frantic gasps for air. The girl shrieks and backs away, blocking Eridimus from view. 

  
  


A man roars when a Tal-Vashoth mace hits the side of his head, and twitches when he’s trampled by the fleeing mass. My heart beats in my throat, throat constricting around what must be barbed wire of razor blades, my eyes water when dust swirls through the air. 

  
  


“Stop!” My voice catches in my throat. Zevran’s muttered words are lost in the din, but the grip on his dagger is firm and doesn’t waver when he slits the woman’s throat. The girl screams in earnest, crashing into Eridimus when she backs away further. Smoke curls up from her brown cotton dress, flames explode from her chest, the dagger cutting a clear path through her flesh. Blood sprays against the walls, the doors, on Zevran and the woman. 

  
  


Zevran’s fingers are wrapped tightly around the woman’s hand. Gurgles are the only thing that comes out of her parting lips. Her other hand lays stretched out on the street, fingers reaching for the blazing heap against the far wall. 

  
  


“That was a child.” Untangling his fingers, Zevran rises, slowly raising his cold eyes to Eridimus. “An innocent child.” 

  
  


Eridimus throws back his head and laughs, clutching his chest. “Like you and your Crows care about innocence!” He spits out the words, before holding up his dagger on the flat of his palm, chanting rhythmic words. Runes on the dagger light up, the steel reverberating under the spell.

  
  


“Braska.” With a hiss, Zevran backs away, only to lose his balance when he steps on the dead woman behind him. He throws out his hands, his eyes wide and face ashen, hair streaked with blood. Eridimus throws the blade, and with a bang, it disappears from view. Zevran twists from left to right, eyes snapping in every direction, arms thrashing. 

  
  


“No.” Her voice is calm, coming from the roof. In a streak of thick blond hair, Chantry red and yellow, Elsa’s feet hit the ground in front of Zevran. A strangled gasp is torn from her throat, accompanied by red bubbles foaming over her lips, one hand flailing in through the fire in her chest. Zevran screams something that’s lost over the roaring in my ears, and I turn toward Eridimus, interlace my fingers, gather my blue flames and spear them at his chest. He jumps out of the way, and I coat my nails in righteous fire and lunge for him. 

  
  


The bead of sweat on his forehead snaps into crystal clarity. The flames at my fingertips waver back and forth. The panicked mass is, grasping hair and limbs with precise care, as if they are reaching into a pit of glass, instead of grabbing by the handfuls and yanking others underneath their thundering boots. My lungs take their time to expand and expel, cold air leaving my throat in a controlled stream rather than in rasping, frantic gasps. My eyes refuse to relinquish Elsa to the unknown of what lays beyond my sight. 

 

I blink. Darkness floods my vision and remains. Smoke from the girl? Zevran threw a smoke bomb? The Darkspawn choose now to appear and shroud everything in darkness so they can drag me down into the Deep Roads? Goosebumps prickle on my arms and in the back of my neck. Tingles follow a slow trajectory down my legs. My eyelids take ages to pry open. Eridimus opens his mouth to yell something, his lips parting by fractions of inches. His outstretched fingers curl inward slowly, flames rushing up from Elsa’s ruined chest. Something silver gleams, gliding through the fire. A red spray explodes from Elsa’s chest in terrifying detail, droplets floating from her white knuckles to her chest. 

  
  


The dagger drops into Eridimus’s palm, flames receding, the blade enveloped in quivering air, which bleeds into stillness within a thrum of my hushed heart. A beat. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten… 

  
  


Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. 

  
  


One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten one two three four five six seven eight nine ten

  
  


Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineteneleventwelvethirteenfourteenfifteensixteeneighteennineteentwenty-

  
  


Thump.

  
  


Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three…

  
  


Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. 

  
  


Thump. 

  
  


Hundred. 

  
  


Two-hundred. 

 

Three-hundred. Three-hundred and fifty-five. 

  
  


Thump. 

  
  


My heart skips the next beat. 

  
  


One beat that takes centuries to push blood through my veins. 

  
  


One breath that lasts forever. 

  
  
  


**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 16:00 PM**

  
  


We pass Lowtown’s market stalls, flanked by tall, dilapidated houses. A bald dwarf with watery brown eyes, a greying mustache and a beard that’s probably twice his length pokes his head out of a window and peers down, squinting. 

  
  


“Helga! Helgaaa! damn, Helgaaaaa! Nugshit. Has anyone seen my wife? Her name is-” 

  
  


“Helga! Her name is Helga! I scream her name when we rut, you son of a deepstalker! I’m trying to take a nap!” 

  
  


I crane my head and spin a circle. Where the fuck is that guy? He’s not on the ground, and he can hear Husbando (well, everyone understands Husbando, so nevermind that), so he has to be nearby. 

  
  


Husbando frowns, stroking his beard. “‘Oy. Why are you taking a nap when yer rutting my wife?” 

  
  


I walk into Eridimus’s back and blow out a breath, staggering backward with my hands held up. “Sorry, didn’t realize you’d stopped.” 

  
  


Eridimus tilts his head to the side, gazing up. Presumably at Husbando. “Curious…” Eridimus mutters, before lifting one shoulder in a half shrug and picking up the pace again. 

  
  


I lift my foot to dodge a puddle, look down, and stop in my tracks. My face is pale as death, my eyes are bloodshot, my hair is tangled and tousled, blotchy tear tracks run from my eyes down to my chin. My nose stuffed and I sniffle, frowning at myself. Blood roaring in my ears drowns out the gruff shouts above my head. 

  
  


“Mere- AAAAH!” Eridimus screams when a streak of blond, red and yellow drops down from a roof, gleaming arcs of silverite slicing his chest to bloody ribbons. Elsa’s lips are twisted into a snarl, teeth bared and splattered with blood, her eyes glued to Eridimus’s frantic wide ones. I draw my blade, my feet pound on the ground, burning pain slices through my back and my right foot hooks behind something and drags me down, a horde of panicked market browsers parting like the Red Sea around me and the Crow blade sticking through the back of my chest, its blood-dipped tip cutting into my fingers-

  
  


**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 16:00 PM**

  
  


“That’s a whore, you dumbass!” 

  
  


Husbando squints, disappears from view, reappearing to climb out his window, hanging off the ledge with specters balancing on his nose. “‘Nay. That’s the knight-commander.”

  
  


Dear Jesus, today a dwarf almost toppled from his window to confirm that I am not, in fact, a whore. It was odd but flattering.

  
  


“Shitstain. Sorry, Commander. Didn’t mean to call ya a whore. Even though most of the Templ-” Twang, twang. Thud, thud.  “YEHIEEEEEE-” 

  
  


“Go ahead, finish that sentence. Bianca can’t wait to meet your sausage.” Varric’s voice bounces off the houses. 

  
  


“‘Oy, now you’re offering him yer wify, ey? Why him an’ not me?” 

“Ask her yourself. Maybe you’ll get an answer out of her.” Varric’s sigh is wistful this time. 

  
  


Varric… 

  
  


I slow down, twisting around. Should I go back and buy him a drink? Tell him to give Bianca the middle finger and find someone worthy of his affection? We all hear those words and ignore them, convinced we’re going to be the exception to the rule, but…

  
  


“Run. Run!” Stannard’s hand shoves me forward, and my feet tangle together, and I hit the ground. Blue eyes wide and crazed, she drags me back to my feet by my hand. I scream when she nearly wrenches my shoulder out of its socket, and yank my wrist out of her grip. It snaps, and I crash against Vincentio’s stall, screaming again when ribs snap like dry twigs against Fereldan heavy armor. A thump sounds from the center of the market, I cough and fight against the wetness in my breath, gnashing my teeth together to shove myself up with my good hand. My skin slices open against a fallen dagger, and I flop back down, gasping to draw air into failing lungs… filling lungs… iron on my tongue and blood between my teeth…

  
  


“Mi-” Zevran shouts in surprise, the rest drowned out beneath raging, burning and barking coughs. My head splits open and sparks of darkness dance behind my vision. Stannard’s face swims above my head, wide eyes gazing down at me, her lips parted from shock. 

  
  


**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 16:00 PM**

  
  


“Even though most of the Templ-” 

  
  


“Oh, fuck!” Thud, thud. Something hits the ground. What? What was it?  Someone screams. At the far side of the market, a woman shoves her daughter out of the way, but the girl trips and disappears beneath a panicked mass of trampling people.

  
  


“Dwarf.” Zevran’s voice is cold as ice. A book slams against a wall, something (a chair?) screeches over the ground. 

  
  


“Zev- I didn’t mean to- She appeared out of nowhere- I swear I didn’t- Please.” A blade slices through the air. The chair topples and hits the ground. Bianca clicks and jams. Zevran lets out a heart-wrenching hollow chuckle and clicks his tongue. “No. No mercy for the dwarf. Not this time.” 

  
  


“You want him, you’ll have to go through me,” Hawke says. 

  
  


What the fuck? Why- How- WTF? I tear through the crowd surging around me, ducking and rolling and lunging between the tightly packed bodies. Hounds bay and Dog Lords whistle and laugh when they jump down from the roofs and hit the ground, losing their hounds on the stampede. 

  
  


“If that is your wish, you will have it so.”

  
  


I stick my arm around the corner, press my hands against the rough stone, and fling myself into view of the Hanged Man. Zevran’s eyes meet mine, amber doused into gaping pits of sorrow. The white-knuckled grip on his silverite dagger wavers. 

  
  


“Zev, whatever happened…” I approach them, holding my hands out to show I’m unarmed. Blink, blink. A muscle in my neck pulls when I snap my eyes towards my empty side. No sheath. My brow creases. Where’s Certainty? 

  
  


“He killed her,” Zevran spits out, gesturing at Varric, who watches him with wide eyes. Varric’s shoulders slump, and he sighs, shaking his head. Bianca lays abandoned at his feet, snapped in half. 

  
  


“Crow, I’m sorry about Elsa…” 

  
  


An iron band constricts my chest, crushing my lungs. My knees give way, and I hit the ground, grit stinging into the palms of my hands. Forcing shallow air into my lungs, I stare at Varric, my lips forming silent, half-thought words. One hand is pressed against my heart. 

  
  


Hawke flips her staff around and stabs Zevran through his chest. He screams, legs and arms flailing until they jerk until they still and his fingers twitch until his fingers stop twitching and his head lolls back.

  
  


An arm shoves me to the side, russet skin offset by a myriad of woven bracelets, silver, wooden and stone charms threaded and twisted into an elaborate story brought to flesh. A miniature chalice, a rainbow-specked black feather, a yellowed fan, a blue ribbon with fraying edges, a wooden ring engraved with elven symbols. Two clans of gods. The Creators looked after the People. The Forgotten Ones preyed upon us. 

  
  


“Fen’harel ver na!” The words topple from her lips, the bowstring creaks, and bites into her slender fingers. Dread Wolf take you. Yeah. I don't think he's going to take me anytime soon, but I'd deserve it, I guess. 

  
  


I slam my fist against the thickest part of her bow, and her arrow misses its mark, shattering a plant pot at Hawke’s feet instead of her windpipe. Hawke erects a forcefield, frowns, and sweeps her hand in a wide arc, a wall of glittering ice rising at her command, obscuring them from view.

  
  


A golden earring glints when she whirls on me, black ink of Andruil’s bow and arrow a stark contrast on her skin. My eyes flit to her chest, silverite scales and blue scales, griffon crest gleaming silver. Up, meeting her ice-cold moss green eyes. Her lips curl into a snarl, and she taps a slender finger against my chest. 

  
  


“You. Are. Conscripted.” 

  
  


My shoulders slump. There go my secrets. “Okay. Ma nuvenin. As you say.” 

  
  


What else can I say? 

  
  


Poor Elsa… and Zev. God, Zev...

  
  


Her eyes narrow, and she shoves me against the wall and curls her fingers against my chest. “Do not soil my language with your shemlen tongue. Mar solas ena mar din.”

  
  


Your pride will be your death. 

  
  


My stomach lurches. 

  
  


**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 16:00 PM**

  
  


“Varric!” I shout over my shoulder. “You’re welcome in my office at any time!” 

  
  


“Good idea,” Elsa says, scaring me half to death. Her hair is a mat of knots and tangles, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes gaunt. She lets out a loud cacaw! and I clutch at my chest. Gah. RDA for cardiac arrest: met. 

  
  


“What was that?” I ask with wide eyes. 

  
  


She shrugs, brushing unruly hair behind an ear. “Signal for Zevran to stay on the roof.” 

  
  


I frown and glance up. Elsa shakes her head, grabs me by the shoulders and spins me around. “Keep walking. Oh, and here.” A crumpled piece of paper rustles between my fingers when she shoves it into my hand. 

  
  


Over her shoulder, she yells: “Varric! Dog Lords on the roof.”

  
  


“Well, shit,” Varric mutters, loading Bianca. “Hawke, time do to what we do best.” 

  
  


While Hawke’s sends murder-knives of ice at the Dog Lords and their Mabari (poor pups…) and Bianca shoots arrow after arrow, I pull the paper taut. The frayed edges tear, dust sticking to my fingers.

  
  


_ “Exploding kittens.” _

  
  


Written in my own hand, dated Dragon Age 47. Forty-fucking-seven. The date we never get to see in the games. There’s got to be more to it, right? 

  
  


The paper turns to dust, scattered by the wind before I can flip it over. 

  
  


Future Me obviously thought I’d get it. 

  
  


Tell Anders to ditch the Lyrium Bombs and stuff the Chantry with kittens? Does he feed them Lyrium sand for kibble? 

  
  


(Templar kittens? They can become abominations, too, so you never know…) 

  
  


“Ah,” I say. “Please tell me there’s more.” 

  
  


Elsa shrugs and digs around in the pockets of her Chantry trenchcoat thingy. “We’ll see in the docks.” 

  
  


To the docks, then. Er. The Docks. Whatever.

  
  


I lay my hand on her shoulder and tug, so she comes to a stop. “Look, I always had a shitty memory, and I’m used to having huge blanks in my head…” 

  
  


She raises her eyebrows. I blow out a breath and tap my fingers against my belt. Fuck, I forgot Certainty again. Time to get a stiletto to shove in my boot or something. Or a switchblade, so I don’t sever an artery when I draw it. Yikes, that’d be one sucky ballad about the demise of Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard. 

  
  


_ ‘Meredith Stannard  _

_ Knight-Commander of the Gallows _

_ Became her own bane (2x) _

_ when she amputated her foot on accident  _

_ and away she waned (2x) _

_ in the red shallows’ _

  
  


Okay, I’ll leave the songwriting to Maryden. Pinky swear. 

  
  


I cross my arms over my chest and raise my chin. “I’m used to things melting together, to buildings being plopped in the middle of God-knows-where, zero context. Fuck, you know how I can get lost in a one-way street, but this? Different. So what the fuck just happened? Because I swear I could recite that dwarf banter in my sleep, and I may just as well have invited Varric into my office in threefold with signatures, so. What the fuck?” 

 

Elsa’s eyes roam over my face, the corners of her lips curl up into the slightest smile. “Time Magic shenanigans. Your own words.” 

  
  


“Oooh. See, I knew it.” I slam my fist against my palm, fighting the smirk that’s creeping on my lips. “I knew there’d be something off enough for me to realize something was off. Eh. If that even made sense.” 

  
  


Elsa blinks. “And you are not concerned about this in the slightest?” 

  
  


“Meh.” I shrug. “My mind might as well be the matrix. Especially when it comes to time. Same old, same old exploding kittens.” 

  
  


Elsa shrugs in response and falls into step next to me.

  
  


It’s a bit disconcerting that my rambling doesn’t throw her off. 

  
  


… If there were anything of life or death importance waiting for me in the future, Future Me would write a forty-page essay on the crucial points, right? Explaining exactly where, when and how I had to be to prevent stuff? Including seven-hundred alternate timelines about what happens when I shove my bed to the left wall instead of the right, or when I decide to step out of my apartment with my left foot first instead of the right foot? 

  
  


I don’t do vague prophecies. I’m a master at bullet lists. Abbreviations. Stuffing as much vital information in one sentence as possible. 

  
  


And yet ‘exploding kittens’ is all I get. And what does it even mean? It’s a pointer, yes, but for what? Something’s primed? I’m on the right track? It’s just a ‘hey, the world ain’t burned to a crisp in DA 47’? 

  
  


Hell yes. That’s it. In 44, Solas goes on about how killing this world will take him a few years and all that crap. Unless his plan consists of an army of suicide bomber kittens, he still hasn’t figured it out by 47. Awesome. I have sixteen years to prepare myself for a disasterfest. 


	39. Timelords

**I added an** [ **update schedule** ](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Bme8sJH1shkQ-LcnThk8LB_ueJsW-qBlyNd_-NOd574/edit?usp=sharing) **link to the summary. You’ll find expected update dates in there, as well as reasons for postponing updates.**

  
  


**A** [ **Spoiler document** ](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Vsh2lF9VwSi63IPFdUHPTkfefDJFxtURh_18smtvUlo/edit?usp=sharing) **has also been added to the summary. Only read if you want a select list of vague spoilers.**

 

* * *

 

For a time, the Dorian poll was a three-way tie. I had fun imagining a scenario in which a fangirling Merethilda gives him a bear hug, then realizes “fuck I’m the Knight-Commander I’m not supposed to hug Vints in public”, and shakes Dorian’s hand until his arm falls off. A slave walks up asking for ‘Master Pavus’s’ attention, and still shaking Dorian’s hand, Merethilda punches him right in the face. 

 

Everyone else:  “WTF, Kirkwall?”

 

* * *

**Poll results**

  
  


[ **Dorian** ](https://i.imgur.com/9lUXmpm.png)

 

[ **Alexius** ](https://i.imgur.com/IndCcko.png)

 

[ **Merethilda visits the Black Emporium for weapons for the dragonhunter expedition. Which two items does she take?** ](https://i.imgur.com/ITMgHfh.png)

 

[**What does Merethilda promise Xenon the Antiquarian in return for the weapons?** ](https://i.imgur.com/HwKJM5E.png)

 

[ **Do Dorian and Alexius tag along for the dragon hunt?** ](https://i.imgur.com/umcMcnO.png)

 

[ **Does Merethilda consult Lord Woolsley?** ](https://i.imgur.com/CbeaZWh.png)

 

[ **Does Merethilda borrow Druffy?** ](https://i.imgur.com/amNji9P.png)

 

[ **Does Merethilda seek out Scout Lace Harding?** ](https://i.imgur.com/6dRHqsO.png)

 

* * *

****Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 16:10 PM** **  
  
  


I try to see the Docks with new eyes. Crates and barrels shoved together in corners or in the middle of the street, stamped with Kirkwall’s geometrical designs. A bit like a sword that’s been twisted around itself beneath the guard and pommel. Guard and pommel impossible to hold due to the ‘wings’ at the side. And what’s that dot floating at the top? I squint at a crate, shrug and focus on Eridimus’s back. 

  
  


A strange one for a slave. As confident and well-spoken as Dorian. Eridimus has weapons. Weapons with fire sigils, too. Wait, what?

  
  


My hand slides toward the sheath at my- to my  _ empty _ side because I forgot to take my blade. And shield. At least I’m wearing armor. Not that it did me any good before. 

  
  


Before with what? 

  
  


God, I hate Time Magic. Maybe it’s best if I only use it slow down things a bit, as a legendary upgrade Haste, or for peeking at the future. Oh! I know! If the amulets bring us back to the moment we used them, nothing changes… Fuck. We could go back to Ostagar and go through the battle again and again and again with increasing numbers and weapons and all the magic in the Gallows and toss lyrium bombs at the Darkspawn horde until something sticks. Or blows up. 

  
  


An assembly of crates flanks us. Eridimus pats one, tilting his head to the side, and Elsa puts her hands against my back when I pause mid-step. Eridimus’s stride never falters, and I shrug and move on, narrowing my eyes at Tevinter’s stylized dragon on the crate’s fronts. Carried by slaves, no doubt. 

  
  


My index finger and middle finger brush over each other in jerky movements. My other fingers drum against my left leg. My tongue rubs against the roof of my mouth before I clamp it between my teeth and suck in my cheeks. God, Anders’s Lyrium Bomb blew up the entire Chantry and reduced parts of Kirkwall to burning rubble. Toss one Lyrium Bomb at the Archdemon and bam, the entire horde is gone. Fuck. One Lyrium Bomb in Fort Drakon and… 

  
  


… and every soul in Denerim is reduced to ashes. But not true, because it takes place in an alternate timeline… which no-one but a handful of people will remember… 

  
  


I stomp on my own toes and grimace when my toenail cuts deeper into my flesh, scratching my palms until they itch and burn.

  
  


Really, Grethilda? You’re going to do what, see how many people you can get on your kill list? Times hundred? Do you expect everyone to just walk out and forget what they did? Maybe  _ you  _ can do that without remorse (and if you can, then you’re fucked up and you belong in the dungeons where Karras stuck you, for fuck’s sake) but that doesn’t mean it’s fine. Or that it doesn’t leave everyone around you scarred for life, PTSDing when  _ a door slams shut _ . God! Some Prophet you are, bitch. 

  
  


I drag my nails over my scalp. Grease and dandruff stick to my fingers. Ugh. My hair needs to be washed, and my nails need to be clipped, especially my toenails. It’s just… Thedas doesn’t have any scissors, and I could ask the Tranquil to make some, but God, why would I waste their time on something as inconsequential as clipping hair and cutting toenails? Eh. The other way around. 

  
  


Fuck. From mass-murder to clipping toenails. 

  
  


Heh. Found ‘Murder, she committed’ volume 2.

  
  


I blink while the Docks sprawl out before us, the  _ Pride of Amaranthine _ secured to a pole, the plank laid out, cargo being carried off and on board. Two ships over, Jack ties a bottle of Agreggio to… er, I’m not well-versed in ship lango. Anyway, he ties it, grabs the bottle, gives an experimental swing and then topples off his perch when he throws it toward the ship. He hits the docks with an oof, but rolls away and scrambles to his feet in time to watch dark purple Agreggio soak into the hull. The crew whistles and slaps their hands together. I roll my eyes and shake my head, then place my fingers against my lips and let out a piercing whistle. 

  
  


All of them snap to attention, and I raise my middle finger in a salute. “What did you name it?” 

  
  


Jack rolls his eyes and salutes right back at me. A group of Carta dwarves part around him, Jack jumping up and down with an idiotic grin on his face. 

  
  


“She’s the-” He calls out. 

  
  


“Wait, Ducky’s got brothers?” One Carta dwarf lets out a bewildered shout. “Ducky has  _ family _ ? Thought he crawled out of one of them spider cocoons for sure.”  

  
  


“… slapped him all the way to the Deep Roads - got snagged by some beast they call them - Hunter, on his way back.” 

  
  


Jack rolls his eyes “ _ The Nughumper _ !” 

  
  


_ ‘Pardon my… ah, Orlesian, monsieur, but the Nughumpèèèr requests permission to dock.’ _

  
  


_ ‘Andraste’s negligé! Those barbarian Marchééérs!’  _

  
  


“Them lizards with the worm heads?” Random Carta Dwarf asks.

  
  


“Nay. Strips the skins right off-“

  
  


Lips pressed together, cheeks filled with air, Jack gives me a wide-eyed look, shaking his head back and forth. He gestures at the dwarves, mouths ‘ouch’ and mimes slitting his own throat. 

  
  


“Seduces noble lords and then lures them back into…”

  
  


“-a thousand children-”

  
  


“-their butt on a chair.”

  
  


“Meh. Worse ways to decide who gets to sit where for breakfast, I suppose.”  

  
  


Jack throws his hands in the air and gives me a ‘what the fuck’ shrug. 

  
  


“Shh! The surfacers are listening. Pretend yer stonedeaf.”

  
  


“We  _ are  _ stonedeaf.”  

  
  


Jack chuckles. “Oy, munchkins! If you ever want to trade your stonedeafness for sea legs, let me know!” 

  
  


The Carta dwarves stride on with their little legs, though one of them pauses and kicks Jack in the shins. 

  
  


“Ow! I’ll toss you in the docks, get here you little-” 

  
  


One of the crew members, a big burly McMuscle guy with a seagull tattoed on his forehead (the wings fan out over his temples, the yellow beak reaches the tip of his nose) grabs Jack from behind and tries to work him toward the ship. 

  
  


“Let me go, I’m your captain, damn it! If I want to serve dwarf to the sharks tonight, I’ll damn well serve dwarves to the-” He worms himself out of McMuscle’s grip. 

  
  


Squish emerges from the ship’s bowels, strides toward them and taps one finger against Jack’s chest. “All lives have a purpose. The sharks eat fish, fish eat other fish. Dwarves are food for deepstalkers and giant spiders. On second thought, I’m sure sharks eat a stray captain, or two when they get the chance. ”

  
  


“Oh, fuck.” Jack holds up his hands, and Squish shoves him off the docks with one hand. The crew whoops and coins exchange hands. 

  
  


Jack, who’s probably soaked up to his smalls, hauls himself halfway up the pier.   “Bloody Blighters, all of you. Don’t glare at me when I tie the lot of you up and leave you in Amaranthine for the Grey Wardens. See how you'll like the Darkspawn blood and dwarven piss they drink down in the Deep Roads.”

  
  


McMuscle holds up his hand in one part of a high five, and Squish grunts at him and returns the high five with a roll of his eyes, sending McMuscle flying. He sweeps Jack right off the pier and back into the water. 

  
  


Face, meet palm. Christ. 

  
  


Eridimus grimaces. “Friends of yours?” he asks. 

  
  


I grin.  “Oh, yes. Def-” 

  
  


“Well, here we are then, Felix. Kirkwall, the City of We Love Our Ominous Slave Statues. Hopefully, the City of No More Dizzy spells as well. And no welcoming party! Ah, well. Ladies and gentlemen, to the left you’ll see an assemblage of crates against a backdrop of dilapidated buildings. To the right, you’ll see an assemblage of crates against a backdrop of dilapidated buildings. Any questions? No? Are you sure? Excellent! Let us marvel the rest of the city in polite, if slightly awkward silence.” The wind snags Dorian’s words and carries them to our path. 

  
  


My eyes snap up. Two barefoot Tevene men, dressed in sweat-stained threadbare cotton, hook their fingers behind openings in an oblong crate. Wide-eyed, I drum my fingers against my thighs and stand on my toes, craning my head. Stacked boxes, crates and is that a wardrobe?! block my view of the ship’s deck. I glare at the oblong crate. 

  
  


The bottom promptly falls out, sprinkling silver bars, daggers, swords, cups, prongs, cutlery and what-have-you on the floor in a cacophony of shattering glass. A stained glass shard comes to a halt in front of my boots, it’s rounded shape rocking back and forth before it stills. 

  
  


“Yes, just leave everything on the ground, no problem. Right at home with the blah color palette.” 

  
  


“Grab what you can before they get off the ship! Silverite first!” A rough voice yells. 

  
  


“See? Friendly Kirkwallers to take our burdensome valuables off our hands. Marvelous.” 

  
  


Eridimus sighs in exasperation, drawing two daggers, blade flaming. I look at him with wide eyes, and he shrugs. 

  
  


My lips twitch into a smile. They appear in twos and threes, armed with daggers, sword-shards, and even a cleaver and a couple of axes. 

  
  


I turn my Glare on the axe-wielder and stare him down. “These men are my guests. So all you gentlemen will be grabbing are your bruised limbs. I suggest you make your quiet exits and slink back to the sewers you crawled out of, and quickly.” 

  
  


Stannard rolls her eyes. “Just offer them something in return. Kept them off the streets in my days, anyway.” 

  
  


I’m not bartering with a bunch of idiots who think they can barge in and take whatever they fancy, thank you very much. 

  
  


“Suit yourself, then.” Stannard wraps her arms over her chest and leans against the  _ Pride of Amaranthine _ , frowning at her fingernails. 

  
  


Thanks. I appreciate your concern for my well-being. 

  
  


“You’re welcome.” She raises one shoulder in a half-shrug and yawns.

  
  


The thugs and I size each other up. Their leader cracks a smile, bushy eyebrows raised above bloodshot eyes, yellow gnarled teeth showing through a grizzled beard. “And you’re going to stop me with what? A hairpin?” 

  
  


Yeah, I totally did not forget I have no sword.  

  
  


“Don’t worry Duran, it’s Kirkwall to the rescue.” 

  
  


“It’s Dorian,” Felix says dryly. 

  
  


“Right. Ma serannas, Phoenix.” 

  
  


“Felix,” a cheerful dwarven voice says.

  
  


“I knew that.”

  
  


Loghain Mac Tir chuckles. 

  
  


Did he like the Ferelden-with-Jader carved map I had commissioned for him? Did it even reach him in time? Oooh, I must get him to sign the geography book he worked on with… er… some other guy. Probably some poor scholar who gets a heart-attack every time someone stabs a map. 

  
  


The thugs are eyeballing their leader with frowns on their faces, fingers twitching on their weapons. Creases line his forehead when he frowns and sucks in his cheeks. He cocks his head to the side and shuts one eye, squinting at me with the other. Side-eye glances are exchanged between the other thugs in a silent debate before they too tilt their heads and shut one eye. 

  
  


On the ship, the woman that can only be Lyna Mahariel bursts out laughing. 

  
  


“Uh…”  I stare at them, fingers twitching at my sides. “Is everything all right?”

  
  


Bossman strokes his beard with soot-stained fingers.

  
  


“Huh. Missy, there’s two of ya. Fuck. Shouldn’t have trusted that brimstone sellin’ nughumping dwarf… what did he call himself? Brocksauce or something. Pure brimstone crystals my ass.”

  
  


Note to self: Don’t buy whatever the fuck brimstone is. Wait, is Thedosian brimstone the same as normal brimstone? Maker. Pure sulfur. 

  
  


“Eh. Ah well. C'mon guys, back to the sewers like missy says. M’lady baked bread. Might still be good if we shave the beard off the crust.” Bossman says, sticking his knife back into his back pocket (Ouch.) and turning around with a shrug. 

  
  


“Wait!” I pull him back by his shoulder. A foul, sweat-laced sewage smell wafts up and fills my nose, making my eyes water. Gah. Someone toss them all in the river and scrub them raw. On second thought, that’d probably kill all the fish. Someone chuck a bar of soap at these guys. Eh. On second thought, they’d probably nibble on it. Or wipe their asses with it. Oh, ew. I need a bucket. 

  
  


With watering eyes, I breathe as shallowly through my mouth as I dare. Bossman raises his eyebrows, deep lines in his forehead and around his eyes creasing even deeper. Age spots dot his forehead and his hair is greying at the temples. Oh, and nose hair. Ew. Nothing wrong with nose hair, but he doesn’t catch me like the clean sort of man. But if you give him a wash-

  
  


“Maker’s breath, you and your disgusting mind!” Stannard shouts. 

  
  


If you give him a wash, shave his beard and perform around a dozen root canal treatments and slap dentures on him, he’ll be quite the gentleman.

  
  


“You forgot to give him clothes- Maker’s breath, my eyes. It burns! Think of something else. Puppies! Think of puppies! Adorable, wagging puppies! Beady eyes and lolling tongues!” 

  
  


Can you say, ‘adorable, wagging puppies’ one more time, please? For science? 

  
  


“ **UGH** .” Pretty sure it came from her toes. 

  
  


I blink at Bossman. “Uh. I think it’s best if you went to the Clinic. It’s free. Deep mushroom isn’t something to fool around with. People die from the stuff.” 

  
  


He blinks at me, jaw going slack. Maker, the smell. Blergh. I clap him on the shoulder, spin him around and shove him toward Lowtown.

  
  


“Might as well,” he mutters, with a shrug. 

  
  


Raising his head, he barks: “C’mon boys, gotta make sure we reach the Clinic before the fluffermoth finds us.” He shudders. “Thing swallowed Ole’ Hendryk whole, knives, clothes, shoes and all.” 

  
  


One of the thugs glances around with wide eyes, and backpedals with his hands raised, nodding like a bobblehead. “Yeh. An’ gobbled up Elly’s lyrium supply. Ate m’wife for dessert.” 

  
  


“Pfah,” Bossman says. “Yer wife, she left you for that dwarf. Ral sold the lyrium. Ain’t being no beast eating all our stuff, just people lyin’ to cover them asses.”

  
  


“Damn Worthy.”

  
  


They trudge toward the general direction of Darktown. Bossman salutes me over his shoulder. 

  
  


Does anyone else hear the ‘Agent acquired’ music in their head? Because I do. 

  
  


“... still owes me a silver on that bet ‘bout Kelder Crazypants.”

  
  


“... Possessed, my ass.” 

  
  


“Girl’s got some balls for letting her elf rip out...” 

  
  


“The Tevine or the one with the ink?” 

  
  


“Yes.” 

  
  


“For the love of the Maker, that ain’t no answer!” 

  
  


“Yes, it is! The Tevine elf with the ink did it!”

  
  


“Oh. Right.” 

  
  


“... clean out of his chest and ate it, I heard… Didn’t even take the time to cook it. Savages, them knife-ears. All of ‘em.”

  
  


“... a ghost, that one, bled dry… tried to steal the Maker’s throne, I hear…”

  
  


They fail to spontaneously self-combust under my glare and slip out of the Docks unharmed. Sighing, I turn around and face the ship. And blink. And blink again. 

  
  


Lyna Mahariel’s arms are draped over the side of the ship, covered from wrists to elbows in woven bracelets, charms of silver, gold, copper, and bronze glinting and tinkling. Her black hair frizzes, defiant in a braid that’s coming undone. Our eyes meet, hers a vibrant moss green, and the corners of her lips curl up into a smile. 

  
  


“Wait!” she shouts, flagging me down. “Hold it!” 

  
  


Lifting one leg over the hull, she twists the ropes around her hands. Frowning, she whistles. “Pirates !”

  
  


Jack stops patting water off his clothes, whistles back and smirks, his crew elbowing each other. “Yeeees? How can we help you?” 

  
  


Lyna smirks and pushes herself up with her other leg. “I’m scaling this thing. Give me a heave-ho, will you?” 

  
  


He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, laughs, and gestures to his crew. “Well? Come on, give the pretty lady what she wants!” 

  
  


“Heave-oh!” They shout at the top of their lungs. Laughing, Lyna kicks off and sails through the air, a measly rope the only thing between her and a bunch of broken bones. While I’m gaping at her, heart hammering away in my chest, Lyna lets out a thunderous whoop and lands on the dock, left palm slapped on the wooden planks, right fingers poised in a claw. The crew whistles.

  
  


“ **LYNA!** ” Loghain Mac Tir stomps his way down the plank, lips twisted into a sneer, eyes narrowed. I open my mouth. He marches right past me. ...Okay then. 

  
  


“For the love of the Maker! You’re Warden-Commander! You can’t  _ do  _ things like that!” 

  
  


“What do you think I did in the forest? Stand beneath a tree and ask the fruits to fall down? Wait for the squirrels to gnaw through the vines? Oh! I know! Politely ask the sylvan trees to fetch everything for me. Y’know, promise them their acorns back, so they wouldn’t try to hang me with their limbs.” 

  
  


Lyna lets out a throaty laugh and winks at Jack’s bewildered look. “Join the Wardens. We have moving trees. And werewolves. No refund on the night terrors.” 

  
  


The crew elbows each other again, whispering and mumbling. The corner of Jack’s mouth curls up into a half-smile, and he tilts his head to the side, arms crossed over his chest. “Sounds tempting. Got a fleet?”

  
  


Lyna blows out a slow breath. “Sorry. Doubt Ferelden has ships left after Loran tried to find King Miccen.”

  
  


“Loghain. _Maric_. Who’s _alive_. We should _go_ _get him_.” His lips barely move, the scowl unchanged on his face. Marching on because Lyna managed to breach the space of two effing ships with her swing. 

  
  


As one, the pirates turn their eyes on Loghain, who screeches to a halt. “Shiver me timbers, mate.” Jack throws back his head and laughs. “That was  _ you _ ? My fleet has more Fereldans than you’ll find in bloody Ferelden thanks to your drilling.” 

  
  


“I was searching for my king, as any man of honor should,” Loghain says, hands curling into fists. “I’ll hire your fleet. Twenty sovereigns should be enough for the voyage to Antiva.” 

  
  


“Antiva? Crow central? Not going to happen, pal,” Jack says, cracking his knuckles. “ Do you know how many contracts they have with my name on them? In the ‘kill this guy for me’ spot, not the ‘take my coin’ spot. They’ll flock to my ships before they’re even docked. They’re my people, and I’m not sending them on a suicide mission. In the end, no-one gives a fuck who’s skeleton sits on your throne.” 

  
  


“Ha!” I shake my head, smirking. “As if. Anora wouldn’t make way even if it were the Maker asking.” 

  
  


Loghain narrows his eyes at me. “ _ Queen _ Anora Mac Tir is backed by the Landsmeet, unlike your puppet Viscount and your exiled prince,  _ madam _ .”

  
  


Oooh. I’m  _ madam  _ now, am I? I ain’t afraid of someone I beat twelve times over in the Landsmeet. 

  
  


Lay some traps, run in big circles until Loghain draws a crossbow, then stab him five ways into Swiss Cheese, laugh my head off, reap benefits. Recruit him and wail when Anora sentences Alistair to death and no-one listens to me when I object. Oy, so that’s what coercion is for. Sorry, Alistair. Kill a dragon after Riordan pulls a Riordan and dramatically fails to kill it, reap a boon that doesn’t stick, be the main character in a tragedy. Chantry goes boom boom, Conclave goes boom boom. Army no-one appreciates. Bench the arrogant Circle Mage, no way it’s the apostate this time. Bam! Dread Wolf no-one appreciates. Bench the  _ next  _ apostate, then. Wait. An apostate? In Tevinter…? Disgusted noise. Ragequit. 

  
  


Lyna kicks Loghain in the shins, and his face scrunches up, muscles in his jaw twitching. She drapes her arms over both Loghain and Jack and leans back on her heels. 

  
  


“Now you’ve done it.” She smirks, wrinkling her vallaslin. “This has to be settled the old way. To The Hanged Man!” 

  
  


I open my mouth to say… something that probably wouldn’t have been eloquent, but she’s pulling a half-heartedly protesting Jack and a vehemently protesting Loghain along with her toward The Hanged Man, so I close my mouth and shake my head. 

  
  


“Warden-Commander!” Alexius shouts, his orange headdress flapping in the wind. Grimacing, he pushes it to the side. “What about my son?” 

  
  


“Right!” Lyna stops dead-on, Loghain wrings himself out of her grip and marches for the  _ Pride of Amaranthine _ . Are we sure he isn’t a Marcher by birth?

  
  


“Anders’s Clinic is in Darktown, yes? Catch you there. Don’t worry, Gideon…” 

  
  


“Gereon.” Alexius grimaces. 

  
  


“... Fredrick’s in good hands.” 

  
  


Will she get my name right if I introduce myself as Margot Steinway? 

  
  


Leather boots click against the plank, two thick snakes meandering from tip to top beneath his knees, stopping beneath his breeches. Ah. No real snakes. Although that would’ve been awesome. Dorian’s white skirt (Tevene fashion… it’s marmite. Just marmite.) snaps in the wind, the mantle around his shoulders bunching up, secured with leather straps and belts. His mustache points dockwards forlornly, bags under his half-lidded eyes send a pang through my heart. But his eyes, gray and clear, size me up with excitement and curiosity. 

  
  


“Ah, Knight-Commander Stannard. A pleasure to- Oh.” 

  
  


For someone who helped invent Time Magic, he sure didn’t see my hug coming. Fuck,  _ I _ didn’t see my hug coming. Warmth radiates from his skin, the stubble of his jaw chafes my cheek. His ribs dig into my arms. Someone, feed the Vint. I breathe in deeply and close my eyes to keep the threatening tears at bay.

  
  


“Awkward,” I mutter against his shoulder. “We’re friends. I swear.” 

  
  


“Ah.” He lets out a startled, amused chuckle. A few seconds later, he gives me a reassuring squeeze.  “Well met, Knight-Commander.” 

  
  


“Meredith. I’m getting ‘Call me Meredith’ tattooed on my forehead, I swear.” I rub my biceps and suppress a shudder. It’s effing Cloudreach, it’s  _ April _ . Next time, ask the Vints to pack their sun. 

  
  


“With our lovely Mahariel, that might be a necessity. Although I will treasure ‘Doritus Pavlioni’ for the rest of my life.” 

  
  


“What the fuck?” I ask, eyebrows raised.

  
  


Dorian smirks, fingers tapping his chin, elbow resting on the fist of his other arm. He lowers his voice and leans in, wrinkles around his eyes. “Oh, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Try saying ‘Phallus Flexus’ without twitching. I thought Alexius would throw her to the sharks.” 

 

He folds his hands, almost tripping over his own tongue. “‘I’m so sorry, Grey Wardens, your Commander died bravely. Fighting sharks. After she insulted… never mind, just put ‘Lilac Mahogany’ on her grave, yes? Thank you, thank you.’” He makes a mock-bow, lips twitching into a smile. 

  
  


_ That’s mahogany!  _

  
  


I crack up, shaking my head. “I don’t think Zevran approves.” 

  
  


Dorian’s smirk fades. “The Crow assassin.”

  
  


Frowning, I tilt my head to the side. “Got something against assassins?

  
  


Dorian blows out a slow, deep breath. “Not particularly, no. I’m a necromancer, the more corpses the merrier. In fact, if Nevarra and Antiva ever have a love child, I believe you would get…  _ me _ .”

  
  


His eyes widen. “Should we tell them? My, my, imagine the scandal. Imagine the  _ mobs _ .” He holds up his hands in mock surrender, shoulders raised in faux stress. “No, not the flaming pitchforks and sharp torches! I’m too pretty to die!”

  
  


With my best pokerface in place, I snap my fingers. “Dorian Pavus for Black Divine.” 

  
  


Dorian laughs, shaking his head. “Oh, no, no, no, no, no. No. Just no.” 

  
  


Time for the trump card. Uhhh... Nails. Chalkboard.

  
  


“No-one expects a Divine to marry and have children.” 

 

Dorian chuckles. “True enough. But no-one expects a Divine to  _ live _ a little, either. If  _ you  _ want to die from boredom pouring over a treatise on how many times Divine Galatea-” 

  
  


“Took a shit on Sundays,” I fall in.

  
  


“- be my guest, but- Did you just- How did you know- Maker, that’s  _ creepy _ . Do it again.” 

  
  


My smile falters. “Just wait. Oh, yeah, uh. Speaking of the future, I need to go and… check on a friend. To make sure he’s there. In the future. So. Uh. Hanged Man, tonight?” 

  
  


“Excellent idea, if you want an even bigger scandal.” 

  
  


I smirk. “It’s a date, then.” 

  
  


Fingers crossed it won’t be a salute to death. 

  
  


Cullen. You better not die if I’m not holding your hand. At least wait until I say goodbye. 

  
  


I turn away. Dagna raises her hand, wide-eyed and armed with a smile that could tame Archdemons, but I shake my head and march toward the Clinic. 

  
  


This Archdemon has friends to keep alive. 

  
  


“Oooh,” Dorian says. “I do enjoy watching you walk away.” 

  
  


Dramatic exit: ruined. Thanks, D. 

  
  


Stannard cackles and wipes at her eyes, baring her teeth in a savage grin. “Can we keep him?”

  
  


Sigh. Yes. We can keep the Vint. I’ll get some food into him, you clean up when he projectile-vomits on my bedroom door like my old world kitty used to do. Getting home from two-day vacations was  _ fun _ . 

  
  


With a shudder, Stannard falls into step beside me. My lips twitch into a scowl. 

  
  


“Do you have to follow me? Can’t you chill out in the Fade or something? Maker kick you off his lawn?”

  
  


She stops in the middle of the street, opening and closing her mouth. 

  
  


The Templar Salmon returns, with a vengeance. 

  
  


Stannard’s face twists into a grimace. She throws her hands up, eye twitching. “ **THERE. IS. NO.** **_MAKER_ ** **!** ” 

  
  


I blink. Shrug. “And?” 

  
  


She stares at me, her jaw slack and her eyes wide with incredulity. “The Black City is  _ empty _ ! The Throne is  _ empty _ ! No-one’s home! And all you say to that is ‘and’?!” 

  
  


I press my lips together and shrug again. “Yes? And so? We should all rock back and forth in a crisis of faith? And that’s going to solve what, exactly?” 

  
  


Sigh. I shake my head. “Look, so there’s no butt parked on the big chair in the sky. Does it make a difference? No. Life goes on, as do we. With or without a big man in the sky. Everyone in my world lives like this. The gods as we know them, as Thedas knows them, are dead and gone, Stannard. The sooner you accept that the sooner you’ll stop getting disappointed by unanswered prayers.” 

  
  


A dwarf passes me by, tapping the side of his head and swirling his finger to his temple. 

  
  


Crap. I’ve been talking out loud all this time, haven’t I?

  
  


Stannard musters the smallest apologetic smile in the history of time. 

  
  


I leave her in a corridor in Lowtown, presumably to angst over the non-existence of Divinity. 

  
  


Nihilism, meet Stannard. Stannard, meet nihilism. 

  
  


She’s going to rip the world asunder, isn’t she? Well, good thing she’s only in my head. 

  
  


Capable of picking up weapons and using them… and capable of driving me nuts… and privy to my darkest secrets, fears, and regrets… 

  
  


Yeah. Best ask Anders for a sleeping potion. Or maybe I should just crash at the Clinic. 

  
  


… Between the dying people. In a place where the Veil is thin as chiffon. There’s this one quest where you meet this mage girl who spontaneously gets possessed. Imshael offered Michel de Chevin a choice. ‘Either break the stones that keep me confined and kill me, or let a man bleed over them so I may take his body.’ No permission needed there. Combine that with Lord Woolsley, the possessed ram in Redcliffe, and-

  
  


Shit. Audacity in the Vinmark Mountains. Clan Sabrae at the base of the mountain. The more powerful the demon is, the more demons it attracts. Audacity on her (his?) own weaves her will through the entirety of the clan, which is why they don’t pack up and leave. That and not having halla to pull their aravels.

  
  


_ Where the halla go, the Dalish follow. _

  
  


No halla would lead their clan into this snakepit. 

  
  


Lord Woolsley. Kitty the possessed cat. The possessed wolf in the Hinterlands. Hakkon the giant evil lizard...

  
  


Yeah. Sabrae’s Halla suffered a mild case of demonic possession. 

  
  


‘Shiiiiit the Halla are possessed. Let’s not ask the resident demon experts in the city for help. Nope. We have to put them down. It’s the only option. But the Clan will hate me for bringing them here. Wait. I know.  _ It’s all Merrill’s fault! _ ’

  
  


So much for holding Cullen’s hand. Sorry, Cullen. I have a Keeper to smack around. 

* * *

  
  


[ **The Dawn Won't Come** ](https://linkto.run/p/JSDD1T79)

  
  


[ **Kieran as an anti-hero** ](https://linkto.run/p/S8UN9N3R)

  
  


[ **Congratulations, it's an Archdemon** ](https://linkto.run/p/4N2X1XGC)

  
  


[ **'Lusacan, I am your father'** ](https://linkto.run/p/71HMPK4M)

 

  
[**Is Merethilda the only MGIT?** ](https://linkto.run/p/B4VSPO5J)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	40. Dorian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The apex of Elsa's arc.

Oy. My glaring lack of research is biting me in the ass. In canon, Felix gets Blight-disease in **Dragon Age 35** and Dorian hasn’t been home since **Dragon Age 37** (he traveled from Circle to Circle before that and split his time between Alexius, ‘Lower Floor debates’ of the Circle and balls after he finished his education. Not a clue what Lower Floor debates are. I imagine Tevinter Mages in the wine cellars, drunkenly debating the merits of life and how it’s going to take them three hours to crawl home even though they live one street over.   

 

**TAC-canon: Dorian pops home occasionally because his parents refuse to forward his mail to Alexius’s estate. He read Merethilda’s letter and stuck around the estate because Alexius’s, uh, travel angst would’ve driven him mad. Felix caught his Blight Disease when he found a Tainted Eluvian and decided stepping through was a good idea.**

 

 **For the arachnophobes:** You’re in the fabulous company of Dorian Pavus. Warning: spiders are mentioned, as well as the fear-induced effects from exposure to spiders. So if you’re the kind that can’t get it out of your head after reading about it, **read until**

**“He gives a half-hearted wave.” and then CTRL + F “He rubs his arms.”**

 

 **Second warning:** Part of this chapter looks back on **Dorian’s coming out** , and the fact that **his parents refused to accept this** . To those of you who came out of the closet and were rejected: I’m sorry. No-one deserves that. I’m not sure if you should read this and feel comforted, or skip this because it might dredge up all the bad feelings. **The part starts at “Did my father send you?” CTRL + F “He’d let out a shuddering breath"**

 

* * *

  
  


For Dorian, life is intimately interwoven with death. Not just in the careful preservation of skulls and bones for ritual and spell, or in the meticulous process of taking a pinch of Quiet Death and adding a hundred other vaguely magical ingredients in hopes of finding an antidote to the infamous Crow poison, but also because he talks to the dead. Rivaini Seers _also_ talk to the dead. As do Nevarran Mortalitasi. For all intents and purposes, Dorian should’ve been born in Nevarra, where he would’ve been initiated in the secret cult of the Mortalitasi and lived the rest of his life in dark, damp-smelling tombs. For all intents and purposes, Dorian would’ve given them a look of withering incredulity and taken himself and his fashionable hair far, far away from the crazy people who insisted they were not necrophiliacs.

  


Now, as he tries and fails not to breath in Quiet Death fumes, and brushes his fingers past the lifeward amulet keeping him alive, he grimaces. Perhaps it would’ve been better to start with something less deadly after all. Brimstone, for example. Or Andraste’s Grace. Or Maferath’s Disgrace, the tiny white-specked red flowers looking like they’re about to let out a last, high-pitched sigh before they wither to their inevitable demise.

  


Dorian pulls the instructions out of his pocket, blotted with ink stains, the bottom part crumbling from when he dropped it in lyrium and decided fire was the new dry-cleaning. Even the robes he hadn’t worn that day smelled faintly of a campfire with a pinch of ‘I hope they recognize my fabulous teeth when they find my charred remains in the heap of other charred remains.’

  


The letters are packed tight together, neat and curved. As before, his heart beats a quick staccato in his chest. If the Archon were to personally visit the Pavus family and ask Dorian to recite the chant, this is bound to roll off his tongue instead. A glorious mess, indeed.

 

_To Altus Dorian Pavus of Qarinus,_

 

_My contact in the Antivan House of Crows has informed me of a pressing matter. Consultation with Lyna Mahariel Sabrae, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, Hero of the Fifth Blight and slayer of the Archdemon Urthemiel, has confirmed this information. The House of Crows, specifically of House Arainai, has accepted a contract on Magister Halward Pavus, paid for in full with two-hundred golden sovereigns._

 

_The instructions are specific. He is to be dosed with Quiet Death during a Magisterial conclave in Dragon Age 44, resulting in a painless, quick death. I have eliminated the designated Crow. Unfortunately, unfulfilled contracts are passed from Crow to Crow, and should an entire House fail, from House to House. I have taken the liberty of contracting the Talons of House Cavallero and Torrero against the initial contractor and supplied the other Houses with enough coin to persuade them to never take a contract on House Pavus again. Ever._

 

_There is no need to confide in anyone else about this, Altus Pavus, and no need for repayment, but should you find yourself willing to undertake a task for me: Take this vial of Quiet Death, and create an antidote, if you can._

 

_Na via lerno victoria._

 

_Vitae benefaria,_

 

_Formari Elsa of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi._

  


‘I have eliminated the designated Crow.’

  


The second person to have done so in the history of Thedas. The first being Lyna Mahariel, and as the bards sing, _she_ hadn’t been alone. But this… this Tranquil explicitly stated ‘I.’ as if to stress she’d taken out the Crow single-handedly. And Maker preserve him, the girl had gone on to hire _Talons_! She might as well have presented herself as a Guildmaster of the Crows, and he would’ve nodded along.

  


The assassination attempt on his father, on the other hand, is more worrying. As is the vial of black odorless liquid that came with the letter, labeled ‘Quiet Death’ and rolled into a scrap of instructions reading ‘don’t touch don’t inhale don’t drink. If you do come into contact with it, take the ashes.’ It came with a stoppered bottle labeled ‘Sacred Ashes. Courtesy of Lyna Mahariel, Hero of Ferelden.’ Bafflement alone had almost made him drop it.

  


His first course of action was to have the bottle of ashes examined. It involved quite a lot of blackmail, the trade of an ancient Pavus carving knife no-one would miss, and the anxious biting of nails, while he walked home with Andraste’s Ashes confirmed in a pocket inside his sleeve.

  


It faintly oozes a sense of impending doom as well as a biting threat.

  


So he dabs his brow with a silk handkerchief drenched in mint oil and takes a pinch of elfroot between his fingers and drops it into the silverite beaker. Silverite, because his previous brew was a success… if one considers a frantic dash up an antique armoire a success. The coin he earns with his ‘finally get rid of your neighbor's ugly marble statue of a Remigold dancing Maferath’ concoction makes a pretty sound whenever he shakes his coin purse, so all is well in the end. Except for the marble floors in the Pavus alchemy rooms. Goodness knows why his ancestors deemed it necessary to hide a depiction of the Dalish Creator God Fen’Harel biting off his tail.

  


The six-eyed Wolf stares up at him from the floor, eyes glowing red and wicked teeth all snarl and growl. Dorian’s scalp prickles and he finds himself stepping away from the menacing mosaic. _Again_.

  


“Oh for the love of…” Dorian rolls his eyes, huffs and stomps determinedly on the bushy tail. The red eyes stare at him with disdainful accusation. And _blink_ . Dorian lets out a piercing shriek. Fasta vass, his _heart_.

  


“Master Pavus?”

  


Blood rises to Dorian’s cheeks when his eyes snap to the withered old elf in the doorway. Smile, Dorian. Let him know you’re afraid of a bloody _mosaic_ and he’ll snap back into his cold, stiff demeanor. A wrinkled, rock-hard Wintermarch apple with a big nose, sunken grey eyes and a set mouth lined with anger.

  


“Oh, Valendrian.” Dorian grimaces at his high-pitched tone, blows out a deep breath and belatedly removes his hand from his chest. He gives a half-hearted wave. “Have you ever seen a wolf spider? Because I just did and Maker forbid, I guess it felt right at home in my elfroot stash.”

  


Valendrian raises his eyebrows. Dorian frowns.

  


Elfroot stash.

  


Oh for the love of... Marvelous. Simply marvelous. As if Father needed more fuel for his lectures. ‘Son, you put me to shame with your elfroot smoking and excessive drinking. Be better than the Liberati trash and smoke like a true Altus. Olibanum, while very expensive, is more sophisticated than the weeds on our doorstep. Another fine choice would be…’ With a sigh, Dorian extinguishes the fire and pours the sticky, foul-smelling blah drab into a porcelain bowl for later disposal.

  


Valendrian clears his throat. “Ah. Yes. I have.”

  


Dorian blinks, silverite beaker frozen inches above the marble table. “Have what?”

  


Frowning, Valendrian tilts his head to the side. “Seen a wolf spider.”

  


Heart quickening, Dorian spies the floor around his feet. “Andraste’s bottom, where?! Burn it! No- Freeze it, then burn it!”

  


Burning, twitching little legs, hairy body crawling with a thousand of her spawn from the bloody Void. They crawl over him in the Lyrium-fueled dreams, their little hairs catching on his skin. Oh, he passed the test his mentors gave him. He ran in flailing circles around the gigantic arachnoid the demon became, not interested in the slightest in anything the damn thing offered him. He’d laughed like a maniac when the thing had offered to kill all the other spiders. He’d kept on running, blathering something about taking out his eyes so they could keep researching inferno magic while the rest of him slept.

  


He rubs his arms. Valendrian sighs and shakes his head.

  


“Yes, well. Forget I asked. Did my father send you?”

  


Valendrian’s eyes soften. Dorian draws in a shuddering breath, musters a wobbly smile, shakes his head, points at his heart with a trembling finger and punches the marble table, groaning when his knuckles pop. Hissing, he bites on his lip until he tastes blood, shaking out his hand until the pain subsides. He lays his other hand on his chest, where his heart hammers away.

  


They’d all heard the shouting, the shattering glass, the slamming doors, the yelling, the high-pitched, strangled hoarse questions of why, why, _why_ ? Why can’t you love me for who I am? Why am I not good enough, never good enough- For the love of the bloody Maker, answer me, why won't you _look at me_ ? _Look at me!_

  


He clasps his hands behind his back, where they merrily tremble along with his crumbling facade of self-worth.

  


“Can- can you-” The words catch in his throat, his heart catches in his chest, and Dorian presses his lips together and digs his nails into his palms. They’d burned when his father had pulled out his own hair, lamenting the failure of his only son, the son who should’ve been perfect, the culmination of decades, generations of careful breeding, the honing of magic skills, the fruition of years of hard work through blood and tears and sweat and reluctant betrothals and oh, how vindicated Dorian had felt when he’d clenched his raised hand into a fist and set the Pavus family tapestry ablaze, laughing and crying and coughing because he’d choked on his own saliva.

  


The flames had been doused with the wave of a soft, manicured hand. Her dark eyes took him in and his mind had sputtered to a halt. Her shoulders were raised, her chin held high, her lips pressed into a thin line. A crease between her thin blond eyebrows was the only acknowledgment of his admission. Her chest rose and fell in calm breaths, her diamond earrings glittered in the receding embers, her fingers resting on Father’s chest, smooth and still and stemming the tides of outrage flooding from his lips.

  


She’d watched him, through the dimming light of smoke and ash, unflinching and unblinking. Dorian opened his mouth, to say something, _anything_ , perhaps even a ‘Mother?’ but his tongue wouldn’t stop sticking to the roof of his mouth and his brain fumbled for instructions of what to say, which words would make it right, how he could take back words that shouldn’t have been a mistake, and his lips were dry and stuck together when he managed to pry them apart and _she was still watching him_.

  


He’d let out a shuddering breath, pinched his arm to make sure this wasn’t a nightmare brought on by the vilest of demons, muttered something about going out to get ingredients too fragile and volatile for their slaves to handle safely, and closed the door behind him, dark eyes drenching his shoulder blades in acid. And he’d waded through the stench of the lower city, where he’d waltzed into the nearest establishment, announced for all the world to hear that he preferred the company of men, had allowed a striking black-haired green-eyed gentleman to take him by the arm and…

  


He’d rather forget the wracking sobs, the shuddered gasps, the hair-pulling, the gentle dark fingers caressing the back of his hand and soft lips on his forehead. The softly dancing candle flames, the feather-light kisses on his shoulders and neck, the crooned, whispered words of encouragement, the breathless _sweet Maker yes, yes_. The mischievous smile his lips had curled into when he’d suggested Dorian come home with him to meet his parents.

  


‘No, you come home with _me_. One look at you and they’ll be smitten and they’ll beg me to forgive them for their folly.’ Dorian had said, wrapping those dark fingers around way too many coins, but it didn’t matter because he knew that even if his parents didn’t love him for who he was, other people would.

  


And then the letter came. Mother pointedly refused to forward his mail to Alexius’s estate, and he begrudgingly popped in from time to time to tug them out of her fingers, forcing himself for one second to meet her dark eyes before he’d disappear into the alchemy rooms.

  


_The path you’ll take if we don’t meet is far worse than anything you could imagine._

  


_I’ve seen the sky ripped open and streaked with green Fade fire._

  


_I’ve seen demons pour out of the sky like rain, only far more deadly._

  


_Tell Dorian not to go home._

  


His eyes had snapped to the letterhead, laughing madly when he realized some asshole must’ve copied the letter and held back the one for Alexius until this one reached him.

  


_Tell Hafter he’s a homophobic asshole._

  


He’d wondered who Hafter was until his brain caught up with his rapidly beating heart. Hafter. Halward. Tell his father he’s a homophobic asshole. His fingers had brushed over the letter and he’d giggled at the thought of wagging a finger at his father and calling him ‘a homophobic asshole.’

  


Whoever Meredith Stannard was, she knew about his father’s prejudices.

  


‘Tell Dorian not go home.’

  


Perhaps he should’ve rolled up the letter there and then and booked passage on the next ship to the Free Marches, but Alexius didn’t get his letter until days later and Alexius never allowed his slaves to pack because: ‘They are incapable of folding my smallclothes correctly and it makes me nervous.’

  


Dorian had slowly backed out of the room, cheeks straining with the incredulous smile he’d plastered on his face so he wouldn’t giggle like a madman.

* * *

  


Something hadn’t been right when they boarded the _Pride of Amaranthine_. The Dalish woman stared. Perhaps she’d been confused by Tevene fashion? She was a savage, after all. The man in heavy armor sneered, his grey eyes narrowed and his teeth grinding together. Who in their right mind wore heavy armor on a ship? One good shove and he’d be saying hello to the fish.

  


Except the armor was made of grey and blue scales, and there were _griffons_ on their chests, and when they’d settled in, Loghain Mac Tir had waltzed right into Alexius’s cabin as if someone had painted arrows on the floor saying: ‘Vints go here.’

  


The shouting had been the worst. “Excuse me? Who do you think you are!?”

  


“Warden-Constable Loghain Mac Tir. And you, Vints-”

  


There was a mad scramble to shake the man’s hand to commend his sharp business instincts.

 

Loghain Mac Tir’s backhand was just as sharp. As was his blade. Dorian had raised his hands, blathering something about being too pretty too die and who, by the Fade, did the man think they were?

  


“Darkspawn.”

  


“You think we’re _Darkspawn_ ?” Dorian had barked. Alexius had gaped. “I know Tevene fashion might seem strange to Southerners, but: _What_?”

  


Despite protests, Warden-Constable Loghain Mac Tir had yanked Felix out from under the cot he’d cleverly rolled under, stared, brushed the boy off and waltzed back to the deck.

  


They’d stared at each other, certain Loghain would bark something about Tainted Vints and they’d be lucky if they made it to the water before getting shredded to pieces by an angry mob. Felix’s eyes had rolled back, fingers twitching and chest spasming, and their peril was momentarily forgotten until the damned Hero of Ferelden knocked on their door and shouldered it open, a pretty brown-haired acolyte at her shoulder, who’d burned incense and, without batting an eye, helped Felix slip into Uthenera.

  


Uthenera. The deep sleep of _Dreamers_.

  


Dorian had had a tremendous time over Agreggio and Conti, in which Lyna and he had conversations that were mostly half-finished sentences spoken in such rush Alexius had complained about a headache and left five minutes in. Loghain Mac Tir never stopped sneering, not even when the charming acolyte Bethany had summoned a Storm of the Century to warn off the Dreadnaught headed in their direction.

  


She’d cringed when it exploded in a shower of flames and embers, before almost toppling over the railing in her rush to expel her lunch. Loghain’s enraged shouts were followed by a splash when Lyna Mahariel dove into the sea and made for the burning wreckage. The captain and crew’s cheers drowned him out.

  


It had taken more than an hour, hypothermia, and a nose-bump from a shark to stop Lyna Mahariel’s insane search for survivors. She’d stubbornly insisted the tracks on her cheeks were salt water rather than tears, and her narrowed eyes and set mouth had dared anyone to suggest otherwise. When she’d collapsed from exhaustion, an immaculate black pearl had rolled over the deck, coming to a halt by his feet. Dorian still had it in his pocket. Lyna hadn’t been in a state lucid enough for conversation, shivering away in six blankets by the captain’s fireplace, huddled against Dorian’s chest, so Felix’s fate had remained uncertain until they’d docked in Kirkwall.

  


And flailed around in little circles when Eridimus saw Zevran Arainai and got the Knight-Commander and every else killed. Three times over. Or was it four times? Anyway, _he_ won’t be the one telling the Knight-Commander that their half-baked flailed hypothetical prototype had saved the day. Because all they’d had was one flimsy reversed Haste charm not meant to be reversed. The blonde girl, with the Sunburst branded on her forehead and Crow daggers at her hips, had snatched the thing out of his hands and… well… there’d been a loud ringing in his ears, a bang, a shockwave and… she’d dashed off, amulet still in hands, and Maker forbid, he swore she'd cast a Haste spell on herself and a reverse Haste spell on  _everything else_. Everything else being the clouds, the air, _the birds._  


 

Whatever Elsa was, it was not Tranquil. 

  
  
  
  



	41. All-Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an in-between chapter. See the schedule document for the next date.

I watched a myriad of YouTube videos on how to skin and gralloch deer. For realism and to get a grasp of what Marethari must’ve felt when she had to put down the Halla in secret. Yeah. Hunting is glamorous until you’re elbows deep inside a deer keeping a slippery God-knows-what in your grip. 

The ‘goats’ kept by the Sabrae clan as replacements to their lost Halla are Nubian and Walia ibexes, both are species of the wild goat. The **Nubian ibex** is considered vulnerable by the International Union for Conservation of Nature because its numbers are decreasing; it is estimated that there are **fewer than** **10,000 mature individuals**. According to the IUCN, the **Walia ibex** is endangered, **with only about 500 of their kind left.**

The  **Pyrenean ibex** was declared extinct in 2000. However, it may not be gone forever. In 2009,  **Spanish biologists used frozen tissue to clone a Pyrenean ibex** (!) The clone only lived for seven minutes, but scientists are hopeful that this cloned ibex will pave the way for the successful cloning of extinct animals. 

Want to help?  [ **11 Wildlife Organizations You Should Know - Goodnet** ](https://www.goodnet.org/articles/512)

 

* * *

 

 

**Poll results**

 

[ **The Dawn Won't Come** ](https://i.imgur.com/lX9V0HD.png)

  
  


[ **Kieran as an anti-hero** ](https://i.imgur.com/7rv0rkh.png)

  
  


[ **Congratulations, it's an Archdemon** ](https://i.imgur.com/f4mHh1v.png)

  
  


[ **'Lusacan, I am your father'** ](https://i.imgur.com/fnn9YXh.png)

  
  


[ **Is Merethilda the only MGIT person?** ](https://i.imgur.com/trwbrQF.png)

  
  


With brisk pacing, I pass by three bare-faced Dalish children, who watch me with their big round eyes and scamper off when I meet their eyes. On a good day, I like children, though their tears make me cry. Or when they ask their mother something. Or when they just say ‘Mommy?’ 

  
  


I’m the one in that secluded corner over there, pretending I’m not bawling my eyes out because a kid said ‘I love you.’ to his mother. 

  
  


Yeah. If anything does me in, it’s Thedas’s glaring lack of therapists. 

  
  


Damn it, Compassion, where are you when I need you? 

  
  


God, focus, Grethilda. If Marethari puts on the doting grandmother pout, you’re a goner. All right, time for desperate measures. I pause and take in the clan. The leather worker attaches pouches to leather loops and the loops to a faded, worn belt on a sturdy working table on the right of the camp. Behind the tents, the Halla tender brushes a sand-colored goat, crooning softly to the ruminating animal, her fingers wrapped loosely around a curved horn. Sitting cross-legged against an aravel with folded sails, a hunter coats his Halla-horn bow with glimmering oil. Pol, the Denerim city elf who joined clan Sabrae when they were in Ferelden, sits on a sanded log, stripping leaves and twigs off branches before tying them together with twine. Marethari sits cross-legged with a child in front of her tent, rubbing salve on a fading burn mark, humming a song about Myth-

  
  


Gralloch equipment bundled in a tight bedroll, soft hooves on the mountain hill. Twisted ropes, knots, and nooses on fair fur. A fallen knife, a thrown rock, a controlled avalanche, the Halla tender sent away. Muzzles sliding over snouts, watching with their trusting brown eyes. One quick cut, mercy spilling down the mountainside in warm rivers of red-

  
  


My breath hitches, my palms sting. I stretch my fingers and wince when my nails stop digging into my flesh. Half-moons on my skin fill up with blood. Bile rises in my throat. 

  
  


When I said ‘I need you,’ Compassion, I didn’t mean ‘Turn me into Cole.’ I might know how to navigate life, unlike Cole, but bitch please, I have enough heartache of my own. No need to turn me into Pandora.

  
  


**It’s temporary. Would you rather make a fool out of yourself by accusing Marethari of a crime she didn’t commit, Meissie?**

  
  


Yeah, okay, good point. 

  
  


**What lies at the bottom of  Pandora’s box?**

  
  


What? Tilting my head to the side, I chew on the inside of my cheek. A phantom hand brushes over my cheek, the wind lifting my hair off my shoulder. Ehhh…

  
  


A warm chuckle. 

  
  


**Pandora opened a jar left in his care containing sickness, death and many other unspecified evils.**

  
  


‘Unspecified evils.’ Nice. 

  
  


Someone should’ve tied Pandora to a chair. 

  
  


Another chuckle. 

  
  


**Only Hope remained under the rim of the great jar; for the lid of the jar stopped her, by the will of Zeus. But the rest, countless plagues, wander amongst men; for the earth is full of evils and the sea is full-**

  
  


For the night is dark and full of terror. 

  
  


**…**

  
  


Sorry, do go on. 

  
  


**Diseases come upon men by day and by night, bringing mischief to mortals silently; for wise Zeus took speech from them.**

  
  


Yeah. Time to storm Olympus and give Zeus a piece of your mind on that, folks. I doubt the common cold likes being sneezed out every three seconds, either, so the diseases are welcome to join us.

  
  


**‘Doctor, my host won’t stop groaning and banging her head against the wall. I want a sleeping pill!’**

  
  


I put on my best ‘You are unworthy of breathing in my presence’ face and open my eyes. 

  
  


“I am Mythal, the All-Mother, Protector of the People, of the Sun and Earth alike, Deliverer of Justice, Giver of Dreams.” 

  
  


Fuck fuck fuck fuck that was  **_not_ ** what I wanted to say. 

  
  


There should be a Steward of the City of Chains in there, somewhere. Everyone knows Dumar is a wuss. One jab with my pinkie finger and the poor man will cave in on himself in his haste to get out of my way.

 

The needle stabs into Leather Worker Guy’s thumb, beneath his nail, when he applies too much pressure on the leather. He pulls it out with a sharp hiss and shakes his hand out, his teeth clenched in a grimace. 

  
  


“Fen’harel ver na,” he groans in a high-pitched voice, a muscle in his jaw twitching. 

  
  


The goat tugs his horn from the Halla tender’s slackened grip, ambling off with a lazy trod. The hairs on the brush dent in when it hits the ground with a soft thud. Pol scrambles to his feet, the twine tangling around his legs, and he faceplants the ground with a muffled groan. The child lets out an ear-splitting shriek, her lips parted slightly, a rosy flush on her plump cheeks. A small rim of green surrounds her pupils within a vast expanse of white. Her lips part into an open-mouthed whoop-

  
  


“Wèèèèh!” 

  
  


I Glare at the shrieking goat. Shrieker snorts and rips a mouthful of grass from the ground, dutifully ruminating, his tail swinging left and right. Oh well. Someone’s level-headed, I guess.

  
  


Squaring my shoulders, I lift my breastbone, raise my chin and narrow my eyes. The child’s smile fades and she hides behind Marethari’s legs, burying her head in Marethari’s leathers. 

  
  


“You wished to speak with me, Keeper Marethari. Here I am. Speak.”

  
  


I encompass the entire camp with a sweep of my hand, eyes on the tent rather than Marethari. “Go on. Tell them where their shiny new Halla bows come from. Their spears, their leathers, their coats, their bedrolls, their glue, their bowstrings, their meals. Tell them. Tell them what cruelties your arrogance has wrought.” 

 

* * *

  
  


[ **Keepermaker** ](https://linkto.run/p/439PP7H5)

  
  


[ **To Kill a Varterral** ](https://linkto.run/p/QVXYORN0)

  
  


[ **Nickname the Varterral** ](https://linkto.run/p/JSEDCT79)

  
  


[ **Prime Suspect** ](https://linkto.run/p/BL4GDVNG) **(Choose Emeric’s alternative prime suspect)**

 

[ **Darkspawn Chronicles Herren or Origins Herren** ](https://linkto.run/p/ZIX65GBE)


	42. Darth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, polls will be in the next chapter.

Sometimes I spend hours staring blankly at a wall working on scenes and arcs. Thank God I live alone.

 

* * *

 

[ **Keepermaker** ](https://i.imgur.com/HsIPZca.png)

  


[ **To Kill a Varterral** ](https://i.imgur.com/4so9ReO.png)

  


[ **Nickname the Varterral** ](https://i.imgur.com/TV8tuKR.png)

  


[**Prime Suspect** ](https://i.imgur.com/O4p7MJS.png) **(It tied. I might go with both or roll a dice)**

 

[ **Darkspawn Chronicles Herren or Origins Herren** ](https://i.imgur.com/m49plb5.png)

* * *

  


**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 17:10 PM**

 

An arrow _ploks_ against my chainmail, the tip catches on a link, and I pull it free and weigh it in my hand. Short tip, light-weight shaft, fletched with a pheasant feather and carved with leaves and berries. I hold it up and twirl it in my fingers.

  


“Who’s arrow is this?” Leathernether blinks and blows on his thumb, a crease furrows Burned Girl’s brow and she purses her lips, Goat Goader straightens her legs with a muffled groan and Bow-wow keeps his eyes fixed on his bow.

  


Meh. Whatever. I toss the arrow over my shoulder. RIP arrow. Had one job and failed. Won’t be missed.

  


Keeper Marethari closes her eyes, arms hanging at her sides. Her nostrils flare when she takes a deep breath, her slow exhale coming out through her mouth. Her green eyes harden. Lines deepen around her mouth, her hands curl into fists, her eyes narrow.

  


“This is the demon’s doing. Catch her!”

  


A muscle in my side spasms when I throw my weight into a turn, my meniscus pops and my calf contracts. I grit my teeth, scowl and throw my weight into every step forward. My cheek stings when an arrow whizzes past and I slap the wound in a belated attempt to knock it away. Would’ve just slapped it against my face, at any rate.

  


Weapons are drawn with metallic screeches. I knock away another arrow on pure happenstance and drop and roll to evade another. My palms and cheekbone scrape over gravel and my hair comes away knotted around leaves and twigs. I rip a few out and wince when my fingers catch on a knot, sand crunching between my teeth.

  


“If we kill her, the demon returns to its prison!” Marethari says. Why on earth would the demon go back to its prison? If anything, it’d go back to the Fade and wreak havoc there.

  


“For fuck’s sake…” I push myself up and cough when my legs burn and my sides scream, feet hitting the ground in an uneven staccato. My boot catches on a rock and my chin hits the ground. I roll behind a boulder, wring my feet out of the damn things and toss them at the hunters when they round the bend. Gravel stings against my soles and I hop-jump and mutter ‘ow ow ow fuck ow,’ find purchase on another boulder and haul myself up.

  


A Tal-Vashoth with cut horns stares at me from the corner of his eyes. Grease drips on his lap from the skewer of meat he’s raised halfway to his mouth, his tongue going slack. His companions look up from their card game, drink, and shrug.

  


“Uh… Mashev?” I offer. Something something food, I don’t know. Could be ‘eat babies’ for all I care. My calves spasm when my knees hit the ground and I groan and force myself up. My back pinches. Ngg. More Tal Vashoth camp sits on my right side. The left path leads up the mountain. Angry elves with sharp shit beneath.

  


Yeah, Darth Varterral it is.

  


“Oh, uh, you might want to-”

  


“There!” An arrow catches in my hair, glancing my scalp. My fingers come away bloody when I scratch the sting. I sigh, take a deep breath and catapult myself past the elves just as they round the boulder separating the camp from the rest of the mountain path. They careen to a halt and trip all over each other in their haste to turn around and pursue me, while the Tal Vashoth’s roar and reach for their weapons. Fuck.

  


I bite my lip and draw air into my burning lungs. My glutes twitch, my chest heaves and my shoulders droop. My jaw pops and my ears ache when I work it from side to side. Dust and sand get into my eyes and I scream and blink the sting away, slamming into yet another boulder. Groaning, I use it as a launchpad and hop the last few meters into the caves, where I collapse and drag myself behind a wooden platform. My fingers tremble while I pull my soles taut and pinch gravel between my nails to pluck it out.

  


I lean my head against the rocks and close my eyes, wincing when my hair catches on the grains. My lungs constrict and I smother a cough behind my hand, sand sticking to my chapped lips. My lips sting when I wet them and the cut on my cheekbone throbs.

  


The wall trembles and my stomach lurches. Sand and dirt cascades on my head with decades worth of shifting dust and gravel. Cave be like nope, I’m outta here.

  


With wide eyes, I hang on for dear life.

  


Yeah, I don’t know either.

  


The cave thunders when the varterral puts down its leg, unhindered by my presence. Considering I’m smaller than a dust mite in comparison to the sticks and stones the size of a shipping container, I get it.

  


“Oh, there it is! Look! It’s Machteld!” Lyna Mahariel tucks her bow against her side and waves from far, far below. My stomach drops when the air wooshes past me on the way down. Ahhh…

  


Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. All right, think. It hasn’t noticed me yet. Merrill stares at me with wide eyes. With a thunderous cry, Isabela sails through the air in a flash of red and silver, the coins on her bandana tinkling merrily. She wraps her legs around the Darth Varterral’s knee joint and grunts when her daggers glance off in a shower of bright orange sparks.

  


“Can I have one of-” Her fingers are warm and dry when she passes a dagger to me, clutching the other one between her teeth while she loops ropes around Darth Varterral’s leg with one hand. Pulling back her arm, she tosses the other end of her rope to freaking Leliana, who has her legs wrapped around the opposite leg and ties all kind of knots before I even blinked.

  


“Good plan.” I nod at the ropes, clutching her dagger under my armpit and catch the rest of the rope when she throws it at me. After freeing my end of the rope, I stare at it. Ehhh…

  


“Run it around the leg, make loops around the inside, and drop and roll!” Isabela shouts. Right, okay, can do. The rope chafes my skin when I loop it around the leg, wincing when my eardrums pop from a deafening screech. One two three four five loops around the rope, Darth Varterral tries to take another step, the knot pulls tight, I hook my nails into the many knots and Maker forbid, let my legs go slack. Darth Varterral screams, Isabela shouts, my hands slip and I flail around while the wind rushes in my ears.

  


The ground crumbles and cracks, my back hits a hammock made of vines, and I gasp for air, the muscles in my eyes straining from their tautness.

  


“Roll!” Lyna shouts. I throw my weight to the left. My big toe snags in the netting and I scream when a sharp claw slices through the air inches from my face. A soft, warm hand pulls me out, and I land on my back. My eyes roll around and I choke on dust, rolling into a ball, cheek scraping the ground.

  


“Worthless… fighter…” I croak, rubbing my aching toe through my flimsy, damp sock. Definitely time for a visit to Anders where the ingrown toenail is concerned.

  


“Let me see that.” She puts emphasis on the vowels, the last word soaring into a cheery higher pitch. I groan, peel my fingers off my toe and strip off the sock. Watery blood dampens my fingers. I puff out my cheeks, slowly release my breath and prod the side of my toe, where it stings.

  


“Ooh, that’s not good. Let me see if it’s broken.” A curtain of dark hair brushes my leg when the woman in Grey Warden armor wiggles my toe back and forth. I meet her serious brown eyes while she wiggles my toe back and forth, and breathe in and out when a soft tug pops the joint back into place. Winter’s Grasp dulls the ache and I breathe out in relief, sagging against the wall behind me.

  


“Thanks, uh…”

  


“Bethany Hawke.” She smiles and offers me a leg up.

  


My cheeks and the bridge of my nose stings with icy coldness, the air stinging my gums and teeth. She pulls me up, I dust myself off, and a mushroom of dust shrouds every available surface when Darth Varterral collapses with the smattering of a thousand rocks.

  


I rub dust into my eyes and sigh. Bethany rasps. Isabela shakes out her bandana and digs around in the rubble. Gravel shifts when Hawke and Merrill pull a stunned Leliana from the debris, her hair brown from dirt. A rock explodes in a shower of dirt when Lyna tosses it over her shoulder, rummaging around and tossing and catching a glowing blue crystal in her hands.

  


The rubble shifts and hisses.

  


“Flames.” Bethany grimaces and grips her staff tighter. Frost stings my soles and I shiver. Electricity buzzes at her fingertips and strikes Darth Varterral. My hair frizzes in useless companionship. Darthy hisses and the front rope whips my forearm when it snaps. Rocks dig into my back and heels. Hot air buffets me when an eyeless grasshopper head stops inches from my face, its four fangs gleaming grey and its thick, red tongue curling out and sprinkling me with Varterral slobber. Ew.

  


I press myself against the wall and turn my face away, toeing around for Isabela’s discarded dagger. Sure enough, cold steel kisses my sole, but how the fuck am I going to get my hands on it without getting chomped?

  


Lyna’s blue crystal twacks Darth Varterral in the back of its head, and it swerves around with a growling hiss. I hitch the dagger closer with my heel and close my fingers around the hilt. Okay. One tiny dagger. Darth Varterral swerves back in my direction and I slam it home into its eye socket. Because it doesn’t have eyes. Which sucks. Also, it only screeches off the rock and clatters to the floor and makes Darth Varterral roar and slobber in my face some more.

  


Leliana slides underneath Darth Varterral, daggers sparking when she drags it over its soft underbelly and comes to a halt between my legs. Her arms tremble and her daggers clang to the floor when she falls back, her head lolling to the side and her chest heaving up and down. Darth Varterral’s face hits the ground inches from Leliana’s head.

  


“Fuck,” I mutter, bending at the waist and pulling Leliana up by her arm. “Leliana? Are you hurt?”

  


Leliana’s legs shake, but she shakes her head and laughs. “No, no, no, I’m fine. See?” She pats down her worn leathers and sheaths her daggers and takes a bow.

  


“Okay, good. Merrill? Oh! Fuck! Ahhhh… your clan wants me dead. Because… I’m Mythal. So. Help?”

  


Lyna opens her mouth to say something and coughs up a lungful of dust instead. Merrill’s jaw drops. Isabela shrieks a laugh and Hawke claps me on the back, almost making me topple over. “Well! I can’t wait to hear all about the great escape!” She throws back her head. “Awooooh!”

  


My shoulders slump. Right. Fen-Fetch-Harel and all that.

  


Done coughing, Lyna, still slamming her chest with a fist, shakes her head. “No way. You’re a shemlen. Not even a flat-ear!”

  


I blink. “Flemeth was Mythal. She gave me a part of her soul while I was meditating here.”

  


Hawke’s laughter comes to an abrupt end. “Shit. I think she’s legit. Shit, Meredith, we might’ve just missed each other up here.”

  


Dust itches on my tongue when I gawk. Yeah. Fuck. Stannard went here on her meditation retreat and Tranquilized herself, and Flemeth, who probably knew jackshit about Tranquility, sensed something and went to investigate.

  


Yikes. Imagine Hawke’s lazy ass hadn’t lugged Flemeth’s amulet around for a year.

  


Hawke’s eyes widen. She points at me, her lips parting. “The amulet. You were in the amulet?”

  


She rolls her eyes. “No wonder no-one wanted to buy it. You’re boring as a pebble on the Wounded Coast.”

  


Merrill gasps. Lyna chokes on a cough. Isabela gives Hawke a shove. Bethany watches the Thedosian table tennis match with rapt attention.

 

Gee, thanks, Hawke.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	43. Emeric

**We interrupt our usual program for ~~an episode of~~** ~~ **Murder, she committed**~~. ~~**CSI: City of Chains**~~ **.** ~~ **Dexter, if Dexter was blood mage and an idiot**~~ **the ThirdPOV Emeric chapter that wrote itself when I wasn’t looking.**

 

**More Merethilda in Chapter 44, which I _might_ crank out before the 27th. **

 

**The Dragon Age Litany of Adralla is unspecified, though they do tell us it's written in Tevene. My Litany is something I thought of at the top of my head and most likely not canon.**

 

[ **Image of stormclouds in twilight.** ](https://www.google.nl/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=2ahUKEwjgh6Sh8a7iAhXKDuwKHWDRAKEQjhx6BAgBEAM&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.dreamstime.com%2Fabstract-background-colorful-dramatic-sky-twilight-storm-clouds-golden-grey-orange-sunlight-breaking-soft-image131676181&psig=AOvVaw2kjs3VHRTlCE9omAYHv0by&ust=1558605811145466)

 

* * *

 

**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 06:10 AM**

 

Emeric sleeps an hour or two, three, at good nights, and none at bad nights. What little sleep he gets is light and rife with nightmares. In the bad dreams,  Tranquil, Mages and Seekers advance from all sides on the Templars that have their backs pressed against endless walls that stretch far into the sky.

 

And behind the enemy lines, at the head of an army of mages and Tranquil, Templars and Seekers, Meredith Stannard surveys the slaughter and, her cheeks flushed, her eyes alight and her lips twisted into a smile of crazed satisfaction. Beside her, Cullen watches and does nothing to help his fallen brothers and sisters. Neither does Thrask. Leliana, Prince Vael, even the Grand Cleric watch in silence.

 

Even when the First Enchanter shouts a command and the knives are drawn, and the sharp of their blades splits skin, running red with blood. Even when the Litany does nothing, and his brothers and sisters fall, black corruption crawling over the ground toward their fallen bodies. His brothers and sisters rise one by one, their skins black, their eyes hollow and empty. And the Grey Wardens, the Hero of Ferelden, the Darktown Healer, watch and do nothing.

 

Emeric is always the last one standing. The last one to fall into the Taint’s clutches. He’s old, Lyrium-addled, and shouldn’t have lasted as long as he has. When the ground trembles and the statues in the Gallows creak and groan and move, Emeric scrabbles for purchase on the wall. Thorns bite into his palms and scrape over his cheeks, catch in his hair. The rosebush twists and grows with every pull and every inch.

 

A pale hand reaches for him. He grasps it, and the hand pulls him over the cliffside of the Vinmark Mountains. Leliana’s red hair falls in front of her yellow eyes. With a chuckle, she brushes it from her face. Qunari Dreadnoughts sail through iridescent blue seas below, ignorant of the green fire raging overhead.

 

In one hand, Leliana holds a rose, in the other, a yellow flower. The thorns prick into her flesh, blue lyrium wells up from the wound, the corruption slithers away with a hiss. A fresh green vine springs from the thorn, roots tangling around her hand and arm, gliding over and through her humming ruby red armor. The rose vines meander around the sheath at her side, around the blade’s humming red guard, unhindered when smoke wafts from smoldering plant matter.

 

“Do you see?” she asks, holding up both flowers. “The rose blooms unhindered by corruption, surviving the harshest of darkness. The wildflower-” She laughs a smokey, loud laugh, her yellow eyes narrowing.

 

“Oh, you’re all such fools. The Qunari asked the right question and found the wrong answer. And you Templars, seek answers without knowing the questions. The Seekers seek forever if they seek the Truth without.”

 

“Without what?” The words scrape his throat raw.

 

“And somehow I find the biggest fools the worlds have to offer.” Leliana chuckles. “No matter. We stand on the precipice of change, and only pride decides how the die is cast.”

 

Emeric’s legs refuse to move. He struggles to clear his throat. “What… what do you mean?”

 

A smoky laugh. “Either you fight, or you surrender.” She shrugs. “Or perhaps they are the same… I can never decide…”

 

She steps closer to the cliff, her eyes narrowed and her brow creased in thought.

 

“Wait!” Emeric shouts. Halfway into her step off the cliff, she stills in perfect balance. Her ruby-red hair falls over one yellow eye, the feathers on her revealing robes shift in the wind.

 

“WIll he ask the right question, I wonder?”

 

“The rose grows, you said. What does the wildflower do?”

 

He holds his breath, his heart hammering away in his chest, his palms and neck prickling in the warm wind.

 

“The rose blooms, unhindered amidst the darkness, and weathers the storms to come.” She shrugs. “The blade is a bright flame in the darkest night. The corrupted waters were its breath of life, and the same corruption gave life to its counterpart.”  

 

In the depths below, the cannons blast. “Maker preserve us…”

 

The woman laughs. “Fools. Praying for help from a prophet they burned and a god who has turned His back on them not once but twice.” Her voice takes on a soft, melodious lilt. Her yellow eyes soften and bleed into a vivid, striking blue, blond hair swept aside by the storm-bearing winds.

 

“The rose survives, the blade redirects, the shadow conquers. The wildflower thrives and gives wing to change. Does she bear fate or chance? Celebrate defeat or victory? Shock or soothe? Does she seek, or does she reach?”  

 

Meredith Stannard shrugs. “If she brings war, you will all fall. If she brings peace, you will all rise. In both, corruption nestles in her heart. The darkness will find a home either way.”

 

“I… What do I do? To stop it?” Emeric’s hoarse voice catches in his throat.

 

She cackles. “You are required to do nothing, least of all believe.”

 

Claws slice through his cheeks as a black wing buffets him. He slaps it away, almost tripping his way to the edge of the cliff. Ravens flock together, soaring for the dreadnoughts. Their claws touch the sea of Lyrium and catch fire. They reach the first Dreadnaught, and it explodes in a cacophony of fire and smoke.

 

A deep rumble behind him. Emeric closes his eyes, curls his hands into fists. His hair brushes over his shoulder, tickling tickles his chin as he turns his head.

 

Saliva drips from yellowed fangs the length of his own arms, rooted in gleaming black flesh. Smoke and embers drift from her flared nostrils. Blue eyes glared at him from a mass of red-dipped black scales, blazing with lyrium’s flame. Slitted black pupils reflect the green-streaked skies. Gleaming obsidian horns curve from her head to her shoulder, where they end in an upward arch above lean muscles. Wings unfold with a quiet rustle, with membranes soft and thin as chiffon and dark as a summer tempest in twilight. Lightning streaks her claws and wings, crackling with charge.

 

Her jaws open and snap shut inches from his chest. Wide-eyed, Emeric jerks back, flailing when nothing but cold air and emptiness hit him in the back. His throat hurts when the drop rips a scream from his lungs. His stomach lurches with vertigo and-

 

With heaving chest, he buries his hands into his sheets, sweat glinting on his bare midriff. He forces himself to hold his breath and closes his eyes. Concentrates on the air tickling his chapped lips when he breathes out slowly. Drops back against his pillows and stares at the cracked ceiling.

 

Lyrium-induced dreams. Anxiety-induced dreams. Patrols on the Wounded Coast, rumors of dragons nestling in the mines, quips from Alistair about swooping, Leliana and Lyna’s tales of Grey Warden adventures and Witches of the Wilds. The grind, the crunch, the lack of sleep. How long before the lyrium tears down his walls of composure? Before the night terrors catch up with him? How long before his body catches up with his ruined mind and his mind catches up with his ruined body?

 

With a groan, he rolls out of bed and drops straight into a set of push-ups.

 

**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 17:30 PM**

 

Emeric halts in the doorway of the Darktown Clinic and clears his throat. Ser Leon sits in the back by an old man with an aquiline nose and watery eyes. “... get you some apple slices later? And maybe another blanket … with some branches … saw the first blossoms on the trees today …”

 

Leon rubs gentle circles over the withered, tremoring hand. The scent of sweat and decay wafts by, and Emeric grimaces. In the first cot to his right, a woman with bony cheekbones and sunken eyes cradles a bandaged stump to her chest.

 

Did Ninette sit like that when the Kirkwall Killer cut off her hand? Had she been dead already? Forever curled around her broken dreams?

 

A monotone groan comes out of the woman’s gaping mouth. Tears drip down the reddened tracks her cheeks. Opposite her lays a man with bloodied, foul-smelling bandages wrapped around his chest. His glassy eyes blink, his chapped lips sound out unspoken words.

 

With a sigh, Emeric shakes his head and makes his way toward Leon.

 

“Oh, hey, a Templar.” Leon smiles. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes, not even the dark circles underneath. “Are you here to see Curl- I mean, Ruther- Ser Cul- Andy! Templar trouble!”

 

A startled yelp, shattering glass. “Andraste’s wet panties, Lee!” comes from the kitchen.

 

Leon plasters a broad grin on his face and gestures to the back. “Yeah. Follow the blasphemy, and you’ll find yourself an Andy Angst in his natural habitat.”

 

An unfortunate name for an unlucky man. Emeric raises his eyebrows. “The Grey Warden Anders mans this Clinic.”

 

Leon opens his mouth, blinks and shuts his mouth. His hand, with his thumb still facing the back, slowly falls to his side.

 

“It’s called a nickname,” Leon says with deliberate slowness. He tilts his head to the side, the corners of his lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile. “Right, ser Stoic?”

 

Emeric narrows his eyes. Leon shakes his head, props the pillows up and helps Bandaged Patient sit up. He wraps the man’s bony fingers around a glass of water and helps raise it to his lips, tilting it back slowly. Bandaged Patient’s eyes water and narrow, water sprays from his mouth on the sheets, the table and the side of Leon’s face. Leon grimaces and plucks the glass out of Bandaged Patient’s fingers, the latter thumping his fist against his own chest.

 

“That- Damned- Cough-” Bandaged Patient wheezes, trembling hands pressed against his chest. He hunches over, mouth gaping wide to drag in gulps of air in between coughs. Leon’s hand dashes out to grab a wooden bucket and holds it under Bandaged Patient’s chin. His cough becomes wet, he spits out a mouthful of blood and mucus, his toes wiggle and press into the mattress.

 

A dwarf woman in the cot farthest from the door groans, her eyes tightly shut and her lips twisted into a grimace. Her fingers spasm and jerk, scratching at her sheets. Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, Leon shoots a look from Bandaged Patient to the dwarf in pain and curses.

 

Leon wrings out a wet cloth and lays it on the back of Bandaged Patient’s neck. “I’m going to press here...” He puts his fingertips in a V around his own jawbone, fingertips positioned in line with his earlobes.

 

“And see if we can make you throw up. Don’t like doing it, but all that coughing makes your stomach do funny things until they’re not funny anymore, and we both know you’ll cry yourself to sleep if this keeps going. So…”

 

Retching follows in Emeric’s wake as he hurries for the kitchen. He grimaces, shudders, squares his shoulders, and takes a deep breath. Rounding the corner into the Clinic’s cramped kitchen, Emeric clasps his hands behind his back. Lets them hang at his sides. Crosses his arms over his chest. Curls them into fists at his side. Lays them on the pommel of his sword, and pulls back his hands as if the pommel burned him. Fiddles with the links on his chainmail. On his Templar chainmail. With the Templar Sword of Mercy on his chest mail. With his Templar sword strapped at his side. The vials of Lyrium in the pouches on his belt hums.

 

With trembling fingers, the Darktown Healer pins minuscule pieces of glass between his nails and half picks, half rolls them out of his wounds.

 

“Let me see that-” Emeric reaches out, glass crunching beneath his boots when he takes a step.

 

The Healer recoils and jerks his hands away, clutching his bloodied wrist. “Get back! Archdemon blood. Safety hazard and all that. Taint and Templars...” He drags his teeth over his bottom lip and sighs.

 

“Look, I just…” He shakes his head, grabs a shard, and hurls it against the opposite wall. His hands leave a bloody trail when he cups them over his mouth and drags them over his cheeks and through his hair. He chuckles mirthlessly. “Just like me to drop the key ingredient in the Joining potion and blab about it to the first guy I lay my eyes on. I haven’t even bought you dinner yet, can you imagine?”  

 

Archdemon blood in the Joining potion. Taint and Templars… Grey Wardens… they’re immune, right? But… then why… Emeric’s tongue curls into words that refuse to leave his mouth. He takes one inconspicuous step backward.

 

The Healer’s eyes snap up, his hands lower with excruciating slowness. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no. She didn’t take more with her you, you know. Lyna, I mean. Which means…”

 

“Absolutely nothing, I guess. Fuck. Fuck.” The Healer’s shoulders slump. “Meredith. Oh fuck. She… she was…”

 

“Counted on me.” He sighs, shakes his head, and shakes out his hands. “If she had even an inkling of what I did, she’d-” He wedges his fingers between his teeth and bites down.

 

Glass. The glass on his fingers. Sweet Maker, it must get between his teeth, cut into his tongue, slice open the roof of his mouth… Emeric draws in a sharp breath, grabs Anders’s wrist in an iron grip, and meets the man’s eyes. “Enough. Pull yourself together. If you’re looking for punishment, I recommend Katriela from the Blooming Rose.”

 

Anders drops his hands, his eyebrows raised, his lips twitching into a smirk. Emeric blinks. ‘If you’re looking for...’ Maker, let the ground swallow him whole. Forcing his face into the epitome of impassiveness, he makes quick work of the glistening glass in Anders’s hands, depositing shards and splinters in the sink.

 

“That’s all, thank you. You can just-” Anders gestures vaguely toward the back of the Clinic, before running the faucet.

 

“Cullen’s in the back. He’s not really…” Anders grimaces, scrubbing a brush over his knuckles until the skin is bright red. “He’s not really awake, and when he is awake, he’s not coherent. He seems to sleep better if you read the Chant for him, though, so maybe you can do that.”

 

Emeric nods. Anders shakes out his hands before drying them off on a towel, chuckling softly. “You know, I thought I knew my Chant.” He smiles. “Turns out the Vints have their own version of events. Maybe you should read that. Might make you pull your heads out of your collective asses.”

 

“I believe we have no heads to pull out of our asses.” Emeric chuckles at Anders’s wide eyes. Anders grins. “Look at you, the humorous one? The life of the party?”

 

Anders frowns. “No, wait. A Templar party is a bad idea. What would you do, anyway? Twenty Ways To Kill Maleficarum? Ten Ways To Bore Myself To Sleep? Discuss the many methods of getting bloodstains out of your shirts? Do you pick the skin off your Brands, or do you make the Tranquil do it themselves?”

 

A rough shove against his shoulder makes Emeric stumble back. Glass crunches underfoot. Anders narrows his eyes. “Do they scream?”

 

Another shove. “Huh?” His back hits the wall. Anders’s fist hits the wall a hair’s breadth away from Emeric’s face, plaster dusting the air.

 

“Claw at their cheeks? Try to gauge their own eyes out? Tear open their wrists to make it all end?” Pale scars snake over Anders’s wrists and fingers. A hum fills the air, the scars crackle with energy, rippling, and bleeding an iridescent blue.

 

“Justice.” Emeric’s voice is little more than a whisper. Meredith’s eyes turn glassy whenever someone mentions the spirit inside the Healer. Just once, her breath caught in her throat, her hand shooting out to wrap around it, and he’d feigned ignorance. The Hero of Ferelden… Emeric grits his teeth together. The Hero of Ferelden threatened him with Zevran Arainai if he asked about Anders again.

 

“You know who I am? What we have done?” Gone are the soft amber eyes, giving way to steeled electric blue. They’re narrowed, Anders’s mouth twisted into a scowl of displeasure. The hairs on Emeric’s arms stand on edge, his scalp prickles, pinpricks jab at the back of his neck.

 

“I don’t-” Emeric swallows. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He drags it over his chapped lips. “The Knight-Commander claims-”

 

Anders- no, Justice frowns. “She speaks of me?”

 

Is he… flattered? Wide-eyed, Emeric blows out a breath through his nose and clears his throat. “Self-defense. Y-you were down on the ground, and they-”

 

Light explodes behind his eyes when the back of his head hits the wall. Bone snaps and flesh gives, his nose drooping to the side haphazardly. With a groan, Emeric presses his hand to his nose. Lukewarm blood runs into his mouth. He puts his fingers on either side of his nose and prods, hissing when a dull throb makes him sway on his feet. Even the gums beneath his molars ache in sympathy.

 

“Do you fear me, mortal? What do you see when you look at me?”

 

Breathing in shallowly, he eyes Anders with a watery eye, the other scrunched shut from the pain. He angles his head back. Wait. Was it back, or are you supposed to bow forward if your nose bleeds? And that’s just for a nosebleed. As far as broken noses go, you toughen up, set it, grit your teeth and ignore the agonizing ache. Worse when you’re chasing an apostate. Bleeding around a cornered maleficar means death if you don’t recite the Litany of Adralla. Knight-Captain Cullen had made every Templar in Kirkwall run laps while reciting the Litany on and on, breaking it down line for line, had them pick off the other left off. They’d hated him for it. For the kicks and punches, he’d pull out of nowhere while they ran. For the insults, the shouting, the shoves they’d get in their backs if Cullen felt like it. For the rocks hurled at their heads

 

At the end of the month, they’d recited the Litany in perfect harmony, unfazed when Knight-Captain Thrask gave Orsino the go-ahead and unleashed the mages on them. They’d recited the Litany while blocking lightning bolts, fireballs, ice shards, stonefists. Their voices had ebbed and waned without beginning and end. They sidestepped Fade-steps, Virulent Bombs - Maker forbid, Chantry-banned magic - jumped over grease spells, dodged Stonefists, Holy Smites from Cullen, Mallory, Mangles.  

 

Iron tinges the back of his throat. He swallows it away, his stomach churns, a pit filled with glass.

 

Maker. One ‘Now.’ from Meredith Stannard. The Tranquil in the vicinity had snapped to attention. They’d stopped then, screeching to a halt, frowning, staring, wondering.

 

Only to kick off in frantic speed when the Tranquil unsheathed daggers and slipped out of sight. His feet hit the ground, and his heart exploded in his chest, every blade of grass sharpened with crystal clarity. He rolled to evade a thrown dagger. They achieved some semblance of coordination only for everything to crash and burn when Meredith’s assistants stepped into view, assumed dueling stances and disarmed all fifteen of them with viper-like strikes.

 

Elsa’s breath tickled his ear, her blade on his neck.

 

“Tell me.” He’d had to strain his ears to make out her words. “Did you touch her? Shackle her? Did you break her, reshape her into a hollow shell? Fancy yourself a puppeteer?”

 

“No,” Emeric had breathed, with wide eyes and a constricted throat. The tremors started in his fingertips and worked their way to his arms and legs. “I wouldn’t- I’ve never- Maker, I- Look at my back if you don’t believe me. Look at the- the marks.”

 

She’d cocked her head to the side, her blade feather-light on his skin, and laughed before stepping back and directing her attention elsewhere. She was gone before he fully comprehended what he’d seen and heard.

 

He’d never seen a Tranquil smile. He’d never heard a Tranquil laugh.

 

But sweet Maker, he wanted to hear her do it again. And the others. His nails bit into his palms.

 

Tranquility stole this from them. And the Tranquil bore it without faltering, without complaints. They bore the bruises, the cuts, the grueling abuse grown mages withered and died under on the inside. Their sunken eyes, the hollowness, the thousand-mile stares… And the Tranquil took it all, dusted themselves off and went on with their day.

 

Blessed are they who stand before

The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.

Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

 

Sometimes, when he stares at the ceiling and counts away the hours until he can finally stop feigning hope for sleep’s embrace, he’s sure the Templars are the corrupt ones and the Tranquil the champions.

 

Every so often, he catches himself wondering if a Tranquil mage could be instructed… taught… mentored… and perhaps, perhaps…

 

Tranquil have infallible focus. No blood mage would break through their mental defenses. If they could be taught to smite and cleanse, to guard and protect…

 

… To watch…

 

Perhaps… If they could be taught…

 

Why would he be so naive to believe himself the first to think of this?

 

“Apparently, you see a whole lot on that wall that I don’t see.”

 

Emeric starts. Anders chuckles, his eyes returned to amber, the blue cracks disappeared.  

 

“I can’t believe that worked. Ooooh, I can’t wait to try this on the Red Water Teeth. Or the Darkspawn. Just look daft, and they’ll figure you’re not worth the trouble. You’re a genius.” Anders smirks and claps him on the back. Emeric sways on his feet.

 

Memories. Just a remembered dream mixing with rigorous training, nothing else.

 

Not a vision. Emeric is no Kordillus Drakon. He isn’t even sure if he believes…

 

‘You are required to do nothing, least of all believe.’

  


Andraste, provide strength

Andraste, provide faith

Andraste, provide clarity

Andraste, guide my heart

Andraste, guide my blade

Andraste, guide my hand

Andraste, cleanse my heart

Andraste, cleanse my mind

Andraste, cleanse my soul

 

The Litany burns away the lingering sense of unease, and he sighs in relief. Meredith Stannard is a good person. Rational. Intelligent. Yes. He will tell her of his suspicions about Leliana and Evalina once he's done here, and she will look into it with an open mind.  

 

“So, uh, what did you need me for? Besides healing your nose. Which… you obviously didn’t come here for.” Anders’s half-hearted smile gets him another chuckle.

 

Emeric rolls his shoulders and straightens. “Just a few questions about Leliana.”

 

He shrugs. “Nothing to bother her with, as…” He pretends to fight a smile and averts his eyes, thrumming his fingers on his thighs. “I’m sure my questions would only embarrass her. And myself. And onlookers. And Meredith’s cat. Yeah. It’s...”

 

He sucks in his bottom lip. “No use bothering her with an old fool’s affections.”

 

Anders smirks. Bullseye. “Tell me everything about the cat, and we’ll talk women.”

 

Emeric eyes the bloodied shards on the cupboard. “What about the...?”

 

Anders’s lips twist into a tight-lipped grimace. “There’s more over at the Arch-” He coughs and waves it away. “Lyna will handle it. Don’t worry about it. Actually, it’d be best if this never happened, if you get what I mean...”

 

* * *

**Polls close on the 27th.**

 

~~**Friends for Lee**~~ **(link appears to be wonky, will be added in next chapter)**

 

 

[ **The next ThirdPOV chapter** ](https://linkto.run/p/TQDDYW88)

 

 

[ **The abomination in Denerim** ](https://linkto.run/p/NIHKPKZM)

 

 

[ **A possible side project (Spoilers for GoT S8 finale in the pol!!!!!)** ](https://linkto.run/p/C55HO75Q)

 


	44. Afterfart

[ **The next ThirdPOV chapter** ](https://i.imgur.com/ceqkX40.png)

 

[ **The abomination in Denerim** ](https://i.imgur.com/TJOSScE.png)

 

[ **A side project (Spoilers for GoT S8 finale)** ](https://i.imgur.com/3sWqYVg.png) Thank you so much for voting on this one, guys.

* * *

 

 

**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 6:00 PM**

 

Leliana tilts her head to the side, smiles, and whistles. Either Barkspawn or Mangy trots up and licks my fingers. I scratch her/him behind an ear, blink, frown, and do a double take at the grey wolf lavishing my affection. Leliana laughs. “He likes you.”

 

My tongue sticks to my lips. “How- How do you- Gods.”

 

“Perhaps I’ll tell you later, no?”

 

Uh. Yeah. Damned right you will.

 

Leliana crouches, presses a kiss on Discount Direwolf’s nose and applies liberal scratches. Discount Direwolf wriggles in delight. “Can I use your bow, Lyna?”

 

Lyna blinks, nods, and goes back to her thousand-mile stare in my direction. Slowly, Leliana tugs the bow from her grip o’ death and despair.

 

I incline my head. “Be careful. Dead bards suck.”

 

Must pitch title to Varric. Fits with his other horrendous titles.

 

Leliana strokes the fletching on Lyna’s arrows, twirls one between her fingers and slides it back into the quiver. “I’m always careful.”

 

My teeth drag over my bottom lip. “An entire clan against one bard, though...”

 

“That’s what Silas is for.” She chuckles. “Can you imagine? A wolf on the loose after a shemlen claims to be one of their gods?”

 

Oooooh. I frown. “Wait. You’re sending him out to get _slaughtered_?!”

 

“Maker, no.” Leliana’s hands pause in Silas’s fur. “I would _never_." She shakes her head. “No, Silas will be a good boy and fetch their arrows.”

 

Oh. Yeah, okay. Definitely _not_ okay. What the fuck?!

 

“I don’t think-”

 

Silas slips around the bend. Annnd Leliana’s gone. Christ, _one second_.

 

“Lyna? Call her off.”

 

Lyna pales and presses a hand against her chest. Tears glisten in her eyes as she staggers back, swaying on her feet. “I… I killed Flemeth.”

 

“I killed you.” Her voice breaks, small and ragged.   

 

“I killed _Mythal_ -” Her fists knead into her stomach. She doubles over and retches. I wrinkle my nose from the acidic stench and shuffle back. Beads of sweat roll down her temples. They catch in her eyebrows, cling to her nose, pool in the hollow of her neck. Her knees buckle. A soft, wailing groan tears from her throat. Her fingers grasp for purchase on the ground.

 

Fuck the Clan. They can get in line and wait. I swallow a sob of my own, drop to the ground, and open my arms. Lyna throws herself into my lap with a hiccuping cry. I cradle her to my chest and stroke her hair.

 

“You’re okay. I’m fine. It’s going to be fine. I’m not angry. You didn’t kill me. You didn’t know. Flemeth was evil, anyway. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you…”

 

Merrill wraps her arms around us. Bethany’s weight topples us over into a tangled heap of limbs. Merrill yelps, Isabela curses, but at least Lyna laughs.

 

Hawke feigns gagging with her finger in her throat. My nails dig into my palms. I jut out my chin and narrow my eyes. Hawke’s nostrils flare. She clenches her jaw, grits her teeth and scowls. God. Bitch please, can a conveniently spawned dragon bite her in half? Right around yesteryear? Hawke sighs in exasperation, throws her hands up, drags Lyna to her feet and slaps her on the shoulder.

 

“There. I gave her a pat. Happy?”

 

Fuck you, Hawke. Merrill doesn’t deserve you. You know what? I’m giving your brother a promotion. Oh yes. That’ll teach her.

 

Soft-threaded footsteps. I jump to my feet. Blood rushes back to my head and makes me wobbly. Spots blur my vision. Breathe in. Breathe out. You know the drill, Grethilda. Breathe until the ringing stops and the color floods back.

 

Pol steps into view and jars, his eyes wide, his jaw slack. I bite back a laugh, snort, and laugh anyway.

 

“Ah… she’s… uhm… Lethallin… did you send the wolf to... ”

 

I raise my eyebrows. Pol pales.

 

“... the Halla … the demon …  up in the mountain … it’s prison … Keeper Marethari said-“

 

Lyna wipes her eyes and smiles, letting her hand fall to her side. “Paul, meet Myrtle. Myrtle, meet Paul.”

 

Pol’s hands curl into fists. He squeezes his eyes shut and releases a slow breath. “Dhrua, dhrua, dhrua.”

 

‘Breathe.’?

 

‘Stay calm.’?

 

‘I’m an idiot.’?

 

Whatever.

 

His eyes snap to the hillside and back to me. “They’re coming.”

 

No shit, Sherlock.

 

 

Wait. Sherlocks are Darkspawn here. Ha-ha-di-ha.

 

“You have to hide. Quickly!”

 

No shit, Watson.

 

I blink the last dark blotches away. Worry my bottom lip. Shake my head. My stomach churns and rumbles. Fuck. When did I eat? I frown. This morning? Yeah, probably. Fuck. I should eat more. Three meals a day plus snacks from now on. Gotta keep the metabolism going. All that idiocy. Hmm. One large meal a day might be better with my wacky schedule.

 

An arrow thwacks against the far wall. Noooooo, Silas. What happened to Silas? He’s okay, right? Goodest boys never die. He’s fine.

 

“I’ll talk to them.” Lyna brushes sand and dust from her cheek. Rubs it between her fingers. Frowns.

 

“Can you do something for me? Follow that tunnel-” She points to a chasm in the wall.

 

“Until you find a Darkspawn-” Her hands shoot up. “I know, I know-”

 

I chuckle and hold up a hand. “Find the friendly neighborhood ‘spawn. Got it.”

 

“His name is the Messiah.”

 

Went looking for Darkspawn, found Jesus.

 

“See, we need more vials of…”

 

Ketchup? Halla piss? Lyrium? Stardust? Bat guano? Spider venom?

 

 

Lyna throws her hands in the air with an exasperated sigh. “Anders dropped the Archdemon blood, and we need more. There! I said it!”

 

She crosses her arms over her chest and scowls. “Beth, remind me to slap the Warden who decided secrecy was a good idea.”

 

 

Bethany chuckles. “You didn’t slap Anders for-” She averts her eyes. “Well. You know.”

 

 

“Brigitte will go with you,” Lyna says. “Oh, and get your shoes. Just wait around the first bend, and she’ll find you.”

 

 

Yes. Let’s send the non-Grey Warden Knight-Commander into the Deep Roads alone. God. Here I thought game mechanics were the only reason my Warden dragged everyone and Ser Pounce down to Darkspawn Central.

 

Faint shouting. I whirl around and wave my hand. “Yeah, cool. I’m off. Bye, guys. Thanks, Lyna. Fuck you, Hawke.”

 

Hawke rolls her eyes. “Likewise.”

 

Isabela punches Hawke in the face. Hawke’s bottom lip splits, and blood runs down her chin. I pump my fist in the air. “Woohoo, go Isabela!”  

 

Hawke’s face twists into a pained grimace as she prods the bridge of her nose and flinches.

 

Hawke’s eyes snap up. Oh god. I’ll take my chances with the ‘spawn.

 

Isabela laughs and quarterbacks Hawke “Run, sweet thing, runnnnn!”

 

I sprint for the Deep Roads.

 

I’ll take my chances with the ‘spawn.

 

 

Would they recognize me as their Old God or drag me off and nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.

 

 

Meowing kittens. Wiggling dogs. Rainbow farting pink fluffy unicorns.

 

The further I go in, the darker the tunnel becomes, the more spots dance across my vision. I shuffle forward inch by inch, hands flat on the walls, grimacing when the holes in my hands catch on stone. Gritting my teeth, I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth and swallow past the tightening band around my throat. The walls narrow. I lurch to a halt, heartbeat thudding in my ears.

 

Muffled claws scratch over rock. A band tightens around my chest and I scratch my palms and bite my tongue. Fuck. I don’t want to be here. Anywhere. A-Anywhere else. Please. I want to be anywhere else.

 

Okay. Okay. Take it easy.

 

One step. Another step. My palms press against the walls. Third step. My hair sticks to the ceiling, and I yank it free. Rock. Shit. Shit! A stabbing, burning pain spreads from my toes to my feet, my knee twists and buckles. Stars explode behind my eyes. My head throbs and I groan. My feet press against the walls. Keep the ceiling from coming down. Biting back a sob, I reach. No ceiling. Scraping above. Rumbling. Rock sliding over rock. A cave-in. An avalanche. I whimper, find purchase and drag myself forward. Make… make noise. I have to make noise. Whistle, I should whistle, or sing or-or something.

 

I choke on dust. Sticky threads cling to my fingers. I shriek and scramble back.

 

Click click click click.

 

I cover my ears, squeeze my eyes shut. Muted, pulsating red light pierces through my eyelids. I squeeze them shut tighter. A hum fills my ears, my head buzzes. Pain ricochets through my forehead, settling around my eyes.

 

“Krrrr?”   

 

My head snaps up. Daggers of pain stab into my left eye and twist around and around and around. Bile rises in my throat, and I hunch over. Breathe in, breathe out, Grethilda. Moth’s here. It’s alright. Bethany said she’d only take a minute.

 

Well, Lyna said _Brigitte_ would only take a minute.

 

Next time, you’ll square your shoulders, lift your chin, narrow your eyes and say ‘I’m not going anywhere alone. Not for a minute. Not into the Deep Roads, not on the Wounded Coast, not in Darktown or anywhere else.’ They say you’re a wuss? Cross your arms over your chest and tell them: ‘I’m a wuss. Fix your own clusterfuck. Goodbye.’

 

Moth creeps onto my outstretched hand, her shard legs tickling against my palm. They perch on the tips of my fingers and the crook of my elbow. Warmth surges from my fingers and dulls the aches. I prod my ankle. As good as new.

 

The fuck?

 

Ethereal light surges and dwindles in the shards on her back. Green lightning lashes from the Orb of Destruction in her core.

 

 

I frown. “Did you just pull a Ser Pounce?”

 

“Krrrr.”

 

Eh. Let’s just be grateful that didn’t turn me into Her Worship Knight-Commander Brighthand ‘Cut it Off’ Killjoy.

 

Captain Firebreath has elegance, though.

 

 

I sigh. “Did you at least pass my ‘hello’ to Solas?”

 

“Mrrrrggg.”

 

I widen my eyes in exaggeration. “Variety! Awww, look at you, learning your first words.” I smirk. “Say ‘You’re a mangy fleabag’ to Solas next time, yes?”  

 

“Krrrr?”

 

Solas never gets my voicemails, does he? Oh, well. I frown. "Did you get bigger?"

 

“Meredith?” Bethany’s voice echoes through the tunnel. Moth clambers up my arm and perches on my shoulder. Her wings buzz and tickle my neck.

 

“Here! Follow the red light, it’s from…” I reach to stroke Moth’s fluff, pause, and drag a finger over glittering shards of glass. “A friend.”

 

Little hooks catch on my fingers. Hmm. Almost like cleavers. Heh. I raise an eyebrow. “Will you stick if I backhand you on a wall?”

 

“Mrrrrgggggg.”

 

“What was that?” Footsteps come closer. “Don’t touch the red crystals. Varric said they drove his brother crazy.”

 

Crap. Bertrand. “What happened to him? To Bertrand?”

 

“Gloria dragged him to the Clinic. Why?” It’s like she’s right behind me. Ugh. Cave acoustics. I blow out a slow breath. My throat relaxes, the band around my chest loosens, the pressure in my lungs drops away. Damn it. Breathe out, Grethil. Expel that carbon whateverthefuck.

 

“Just wondering.”

 

Bethany rounds the bend.

 

Moth’s wings buzz. With a cracking sound, pincers jut from her jaws and curve around her proboscis, tapering and clicking together. Bethany recoils, opens her mouth, works her jaw and blinks.

 

I grit my teeth and plaster a smile on my face. “Moth, meet Bethany. Bethany, meet Moth.”

 

Moth’s bulbous antenna-eyes wobble and tangle, fixating on Bethany. Two needle-like tips slide out, dripping with a glowing liquid that solidifies into two pebble-sized spheres. A dark film slides over them in a grotesque blink.

 

We stare in horrified fascination.

 

The Maker took LSD and farted. The Fade came to be. Thedas? An afterfart.

 

“I see.” Bethany’s lips curl into a strained smile, her eyes wide as platters.

 

“So does Moth,” I say dryly.

 

“Pffft.”

 

The proof is in the fart.

 

Bethany shakes her head. “I hear the weather’s always Tainty in Hossberg.”

 

Plus griffon eggs. Somewhere. I want one. But alas…

 

I sigh. “Come on, the sooner we find the big Arch, the better.”

 

* * *

 

[ **A name for Moth** ](https://linkto.run/p/627FFH1L)

 

[ **[...] is with the Architect** ](https://linkto.run/p/F3Z0P775)

 

[ **Griffons?!** ](https://linkto.run/p/OI2PSJJ3)

 

**[Ser Leon needs friends](https://linkto.run/p/B6JPBMKY) **

 


	45. Alistair I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important note: Around the summer holidays by the end of July, I'll take three weeks off from writing. Those weeks will be dedicated to reading, reading and more reading in my war strategy books. Also reading about feudal societies. Annnnd I might even hop on a plane and head to the USA for a while. So be prepared.

[ **A name for Moth** ](https://linkto.run/p/627FFH1L)

 

[ **[...] is with the Architect** ](https://i.imgur.com/y0Y7VsN.png)

 

[ **Griffons?!** ](https://i.imgur.com/CNpYmHe.png)

 

[ **Ser Leon needs friends** ](https://i.imgur.com/qisAhkU.png) (friends are dangerous business…)

  
  


* * *

 

 

I’m not sure if I was clear on  _ when  _ the duel between Loghain and Alistair would take place. In any case, if you let Alistair duel Loghain in Origins, Loghain loses his head before Riordan can do anything. If anyone but Alistair duels Loghain, Riordan stops you and suggests putting him through the Joining. In my first playthrough, I was still angry at him for abandoning his king and everyone else on the field of Ostagar. Off with his head! My female noble and Alistair went to become Grey Wardens and Anora became queen. 

 

The next playthrough, I went with the Joining. I was horrified when Alistair went all “To think I trusted you!” and Anora went “Off with his head!” 

  
  


But if you play your cards right and talk to Anora in Arl Eamon’s estate, and convince her to marry Alistair, you can get Loghain and King Alistair. The latter will be extremely pissed. “We have nothing to say to each other,” he said, after I arranged for him to live out his life sneaking away from boring palace meetings. Because that’s what he does if you don’t go with the “people are selfish, do more for you and less for others” option. You’re welcome, pal. 

  
  


Well, Alistair, as my research tells me: Famous generals are on Team Loghain. Hannibal (no, not Hanibal Lector). Napoleon Bonaparte. Alexander the Great. The Spartans from  _ 300 _ \- eh, no wait. They would’ve ended the Blight in three months. Forget I said anything. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 1:00 PM**

  
  


"She invited who?" Alistair throws out his hands, hitting his tankard with his knuckles and dashing in a last ditch effort to save it, splattering only a few drops on Varric's newest chapter of Murder, she committed. Varric gives him the side-eye, sweeps everything on a heap and puts it on his lap. The three Tal-Vashoth at the bar roar and slap the bar, making Fenris's Aggreggio tinkle. Fenris grunts and takes another swig. Isabela swan-dives over the bar, shoves Corff out of the way and clambers back with a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a bottle of rum in the other and a bottle of Rivaini Swampsoup in her teeth.  

  
  


Corff holds a filmy glass against the light of a glowstone, angling his head this way and that, one eye shut and his teeth bared in a grimace. "Bottles cost extra, pirate."

  
  


"Yeah, yeah, shut up." Isabela passes the rum to Maraas, the Tal-Vashoth mercenary, pops the cork of the Rivaini Swamsoup and the rum, and pours herself two fingers of both. 

  
  


Varric eyes Alistair's cup. "She's going to kill you, you know that, right?" 

  
  


Alistair gulps and slides in his chair. Any second now, and Meredith will burst through the door. She'll slam her hand on the table and balk. 'Aha! You slimy little fucker! Drinking! How dare you, you nughumping pike-twirling son of a royal motherfucker!'

 

A scroll bounces off the wall next to his head. Alistair bends over to retrieve it. Why scrolls? Why not use a journal? Much easier to take with you than a hundred scrolls. Sneaky little things. Biding their time to roll open and trip you on the stairs. Well, except if you're Morrigan. She frightens them into submission with her high-horsed sneers and narrowed eyes. 

  
  


'Alastor, you hold the Litany of Ferella. I don't read Common.' 

  
  


'Wait, what? You can't, or you won't read Common?'

  
  


'Both.'

  
  


'So, when you're squinting at scrolls…' 

  
  


'Crossing my fingers, one of y,' all gives a summary.' 

  
  


Morrigan had yanked the little black book out of his hands. 'Give it here. You'll just cry over it. I'd not waste time digging your shallow graves.'

  
  


He'd smirked. 'Aww, you care about us.' 

  
  


… Well. He had cried. Once. 

  
  


She'd rolled her eyes. 'I do not. 'Tis my nails I worry for.'

  
  


Leliana had smiled. 'I found nail polish and a file in the dormitory. I'll give you a manicure when we're back in Redcliffe.' 

  
  


Morrigan raised her chin and slipped past them, back into the hallway. 'No. You will not.'

  
  


A scroll prods his lower back. "Earth to Ser Swoop." 

  
  


"Hey!" Alistair swats the scroll away. "I was thinking, alright?" 

  
  


Pulling in his chin, Varric raises his eyebrows. "You looked like Maferath himself marched in, hopped on the bar and danced the Alluring Antivan Assassin."

  
  


"I'm fine." He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back. "Perfectly fine." 

  
  


'Leliana, stop her. Do something!'

  
  


'He wants a family, Alistair.' 

  
  


'But- He doesn't have a family! He'll be dead! And that thing will just- just find someone else to…' 

  
  


'He'll defend her and die a horrible death. This way, he'll just… fall asleep. Go peacefully, dreaming about the family he's always wanted.'

  
  


'I can't believe you're on her side. Sten. Do something.'

  
  


Sten's lips had curled when Lyna let the demon go, but he'd let them pass all the same, and he'd turned his violet eyes on Alistair.

  
  


'Our leader has decided.' 

  
  


'But- But a demon-'

  
  


A lump had caught in his throat, and he'd turned to Wynne, who'd averted her eyes and sighed.

  
  


'Morrigan?' 

  
  


Morrigan had shrugged, the Litany tucked under her arm, a thick, worn volume under the other. How she managed to hold her staff without dropping anything was anyone's guess. How she got inside was another mystery, for that matter. Greagior had frowned, and for a second Alistair had been sure he'd arrest them on the spot and toss them in the dungeons, mage rebellion or no mage rebellion.

  
  


Maybe they belonged in the dungeons.

  
  


"Are you sure you're not using Loghain as a distraction from Curly?" 

  
  


Alistair's bottom lip quivers. He presses them together and forces a smile, nails digging into his elbows. 

  
  


Maraas grabs Fenris's bottle of Aggreggio. Fenris's tattoo blaze and Maraas pauses. 

  
  


"Leave it." 

  
  


A cold finger passes over Alistair's spine. He rubs the goosebumps on his arms.

  
  


A mercenary with long black braids leans around Maraas. "Uhh… We need the space. For Five Finger-"

  
  


"Uh, oh. That's not going to end well." Alistair bites his lip, feet pressing into the floor, toes curled. He plucks at the lint on his cotton shirt. If it weren't for Thrask giving him the side-eye for showing up rumpled every morning, he'd leave it be. Or maybe it's because he's always late and crawls to training.

  
  


Thrask never spares him a smile. Or a nod. Or a wink. Or tells him his strides have to be longer. Or his feet should be rolling instead of pounding. Samson did. Samson nudged him whenever Cullen would drop into a set of push-ups and wiggle his eyebrows. He doesn't anymore. Not since… 

  
  


What had happened in the library, really? That Chasind Tranquil… his name was… well, Chasind. He'd refused to let anyone in until Thrask had him hauled away. Everyone had stared, blinked, shaken themselves, and put on their Diamondback faces. Smoke wafted against their skin, burrowed itself into their lungs like scraping little needles when they shoved the doors open. Or what remained of them. 

  
  


Blood. So, so much blood on the floor. A beheaded Desire Demon. A Hunger Demon with a stab wound dead center in its chest. Eh. It also has its fist stuffed into its mouth, which is… odd. Better than human flesh, at any rate. 

  
  


Thrask had brushed through his beard, eyes flitting through the library. "The Veil is thin here." 

  
  


Noooo, are you sure? What makes you think that? The upturned tables? The shattered glowstones? The demonic smears on the floor? 

  
  


Yeah. The latrines hadn’t been amused, either. 

  
  


Cullen had used those brushes. He’d had a sore lower back. Burning shoulderblades. An aching neck. If Alistair closed his eyes, he could almost imagine Cullen here with him, berating him on his laziness. 

  
  


‘What’s the matter, Alistair? Legs fell asleep? You’ll fall over if you move? Do you need a foot massage? You do realize your feet will get wet if we do it here, right? No? Why are you blushing? Hm. You’re catching flies, Alistair.  Oh, wait, I know. You’re doing a smell test. Well. Maker smite my sense of smell. You know what? I’ll get a bucket. You get back to work.’

  
  


Huh. Some Paragon invented rafters made from dust. Or a colony of giant spiders took residence in the attic. 

  
  


Pay up, or else. Hehehe. Some poor trembling fellow gaping at a malicious giant spider with way too many legs and way too many eyes. Alistair chuckles.

  
  


Fenris bares his teeth and holds out his hand, greaves curled into a claw. "Give it back, or you're playing One Finger Fillet." 

  
  


Alistair laughs and slaps his thigh. "Ha! One Finger Fillet, get it? Because Fenris will cut off his other fingers. Hey, at least he can use the cobwebs to staunch the… Nevermind, I thought I said that out loud." 

  
  


Varric's widens his eyes and furrows his brow. "Eh, you just did."  

  
  


He puts his quill back into the inkwell and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Listen, Swoop…"

  
  


Maraas grunts, shrugs, gathers the other cups and tankards and drops them into the sink behind the bar. The Tal-Vashoth next to him drapes his ridiculous black braids between his chipped horns, pulls out a knife and slams his hand on the counter. The remaining cups jingle, an empty whiskey glass topples over, and the third Tal-Vashoth makes a mad dash for it and chucks it at Braids' head. It hits his left horn and shatters. Braids guffaws. 

  
  


Corff raises a handful of shards, puts his hands on his hips, and narrows his eyes. "Great. You're paying for that." 

  
  


"Swoop, if you don't prepare yourself for when Curly-"

  
  


"Yeah, I'm gonna swoop in and help poor Corff." Alistair slides from his chair. A gruff fellow with a grizzled beard narrowly swerves around him, three plates stacked haphazardly on his wrist and elbows, his other arm wrapped around five cups in a vice grip. 

  
  


"Watch it. Legs." 

  
  


Wide-eyed, Alistair half hops, half lunges over Sam's outstretched legs. Sam drops his spoon into his bowl and makes to rise.

 

"Sorry. I'm still getting this walking thing down. I'm bad at it. But you can see that. Hah." Alistair crosses his arms over his chest. Lets them hang at his sides. Makes to cross them again. Drops them. Clasps them in front. Bad idea. Grimacing, he holds them behind his back and rocks back and forth on his heels. 

  
  


Sam raises his eyebrows and tilts his head to the side. "Are you sure you're all right?" 

  
  


"I'm fine, yeah. Fine." A lackluster smile. Blood rises to his cheeks. "Just have to do… stuff, that's all."

  
  


"... All right. You do you, as our lovely Knight-Commander would say." 

  
  


Isabela snatches the knife from Maraas's hands. The Tal-Vashoth snicker and whisper among themselves as she arranges their cups in a straight line. 

  
  


"Yeah. I'm going to go… do me." Alistair bites his lip and nods. Samson's brow creases, but he nods all the same. Booming laughter rises when cups on the bar shatter one by one. 

  
  


Corff narrows his eyes and ducks under the bar. Cups and tankards clatter and clang, and he even bangs his head once, cursing while the Tal-Vashoth nudge each other, whispering and chuckling. Legs shoulder length apart, Corff straightens, jutting out his chin. His lips curl, his eyes are wide. "Pay up. Coin or your life. Your choice." 

  
  


"One tap and you are on your back." Braids crosses his arms over his chest, jerking his chin. "You have plenty of cups left." 

  
  


"Meravas, kabathari." Maraas slams a coin purse on the bar. "Dathras ebadim. Itwa-adim."

  
  


Alistair frowns. Kabathari. Sten spoke of Fereldans as kabathari, sometimes. Something something not of the Qun. Dathras, cattle. Something something ebadim. Not a clue. Itwa… Sten used to yell 'Itwa-ost!' from time to time when they'd charge at Darkspawn and abominations. Something something about falling. 

  
  


Muttering in Qunlat, the Tal-Vashoth leave. Shaking his head, Corff glares. "Damn it. I wanted to wave my halberd at them." 

  
  


Alistair gapes. "You have a halberd?" 

  
  


Corff grins, ducks under the bar and comes back with an unwieldy halberd in his hands, brandishing it left and right. Fenris leans back, greaved hands raised. "I suppose it's necessary in a place like this. If  _ someone  _ would clear out the self-appointed watchdogs…" 

  
  


Isabela teeters to the right, clamping her legs around the stool. "Oh come on, Fenris. You're jealous Hawke doesn't spend more time with you." 

  
  


She tilts her head to the side, one eyebrow raised, and her lips curled into a devious smile. "Or Meredith. When was the last time you saw her?"

  
  


Fenris slumps. "Before. Haven't seen her since. I think… I saw them. Look at her. With hatred and scorn in their eyes. Suspicion. Later. After I returned her blade. But before she… disappeared." 

  
  


"Oh." Isabela purses her lips. Corff's halberd hangs uselessly in his slack hands. 

  
  


"I should've said something." Fenris shakes his head and taps his greaves together. "Warned her. Rutherford, or Thrask. Emeric. I did not. I… I've thought about going there. To her office. I… don't know what to say."

  
  


"I don't think you have to say anything, Fenris." Isabela shrugs. "Just be there for her." 

 

Maker. He should've... When was the last time he talked to her? It was just... he'd been right there on the other side of the door... she'd been on the other side going through all that and he'd... if he'd left his post and checked. If he'd just... Maker. He could've found her earlier. Maybe he could've found her before everything. But he hadn't left his post. Because orders were obeyed. He was a follower, not a leader. Meredith had suffered for it. 

  
  
  


**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 6:00 PM**   
  


 

In the barracks, Alistair stuffs his face with food, spars with Carver and wins, almost gets dragged back to the Hanged Man via Hero of Ferelden. He hides from a prowling Emeric, who asks everyone except Leliana about Leliana. He cleans his armor and blade, eyes a pike, but leaves it in the end. Are twelve times too many or too little to go to the Clinic? Is proof Cullen breathes worth sitting through the revised revised revised version of Anders's manifesto? 

  
  


Anders. Justice. Vengeance. Eighty dead Wardens. Lyna couldn't keep a secret if it hid in a locked box on the bottom of a lake. 

  
  


Stillness spans in his lungs and helps him find his equilibrium. Alistair sheaths his blade, tucks the Litany of Adralla under his arm, looks at the sky and sighs. 

  
  


He can't do it. If he kills Anders, Cullen dies. Ser Leon would've ripped him apart, anyway, for that matter. 

  
  


Later. When there's a new Clinic. He's heard rumors about Bertrand's estate being repurposed. 

  
  


Eridimus frowns at him, screaming orange and green trenchcoat swishing around his pointy leather shoes as he passes by. Alistair grimaces, widening his eyes. He does not want to be around when Eridimus and Fenris meet… or when Fenris finds out who's responsible for the Vints in Kirkwall.

  
  


… Or when Dorian tries to come on to Fenris. 

  
  


… Or when Dorian is debauched again. He shivers at the phantom arm, draped over his shoulder. Dorian had put his arm around him, rested his forehead against Alistair's and slurring a pick-up line Alistair's sure he's heard before. From Zevran. 

  
  


He chuckles to himself. Now that's a meeting he wants to witness again. Dorian had flopped into the chair at Zevran's side, draped his arm over Zevran's shoulder and his feet in his lap and asked… something about Crows and Houses…?

  
  


Zevran had smirked, eyes alight, nodded, cocked his head to the side. Something something Torrerro. Something something Cavallero. Houses. Crows. Contracts.  Zevran's smile had fallen off his face. His eyes had widened. His fingers went slack around his flask. "House Torrero?" 

  
  


"Well, yes." 

  
  


"House Cavallero?" Zevran's voice had been hoarse and deep. 

  
  


Dorian had nodded. 

  
  


Zevran had given a wide-eyed, dramatic slow nod. "My friend, house Cavallero and Torrero do not take contracts. They take orders."

  
  


"What?" Dorian's voice reached a higher pitch. "But- but- but what does that even mean?!" 

  
  


Zevran had pressed his lips together, shaken his head, shoved his glass toward Dorian, and walked out of the Hanged Man. Backward. With his hands raised in apparent mortification, face ashen and eyes wide as platters. 

  
  


Dorian had stared, mouth agape in horror. 

  
  


Alistair had found him later, in Meredith's office. "Soooo… what was that all about? House Torrero and all that?"

  
  


Zevran had smirked like a Mabari in the larder. "Horses and druffalo." 

 

 

Ah... what? 

 

Zevran had chuckled and winked. "My friend, Crows need to eat, and our stallions are fierce and undaunted." 

  
  


"Oh." 

  
  


He hadn't known what else to say to that, really. 

* * *

  
  


No polls for this chapter. Chapter 46 is Alistair POV part 2. Chapter 47 goes back to Merethilda. 

  
  



	46. Alistair II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh for ***’s sake. Guys, I am monumentally sorry for not delivering on the duel. Why? My ADHD meds were taken out of production! Ugh! They gave me what was left, but there’ll be no next filling. Gah! Back to the drawing board for me and my doctor. I swear. I’m on these meds because I tried everything you’re supposed to try before this one, and nothing worked.
> 
> Dutch government: “Hahaha have this giant middle finger! Good fucking riddance! YOLO!”    
> I’ve been working on a letter of inquiry to the Dutch Minister of freaking Medical Health, these past few days. He’s the person who can look at this issue and hopefully take it into account.
> 
>  
> 
> I’m just one ADHD sufferer, but there are many more and The Netherlands doesn’t have Adderall and Vyvanse and stuff like that. We have methylphenidates and dextro-amphetamine sulfate in 2.5 mg and Amfexa (patented dextro-amphetamine in large scale production) of 5 mg. Some people take 2.5 mg, or 7.5. I take 12.5 mg. Not gonna happen if 5 mg is the only available dosage. Can’t split it, either, because the active compound isn’t distributed evenly over the pill.
> 
> Sigh. I’m angry and sad at the same time. I get that branded meds are better with regulations, and safety and stuff. The generic 2.5 mg pills were made by pharmacists in their own pharmacies and less checkable. But damn it, some people need them.
> 
> Bureaucracy is a bitch.

 

**Next chapter is Againbowl, pinky swear. Then it’s back to our favorite Knight-Commander. And back to the polls.**

  
  


**I have to say, I really dig writing Alistair’s POV. He’s such a big mood for me.**

* * *

  
  


**Day 44 (29th of Cloudreach) 6:15 PM**

 

Splintered wood from the crate against his back catches on his shirt and pricks his back, but he leans against it nonetheless. The evening wind blows dust and sand through the Gallows courtyard and the training field, and he prefers the privacy of his makeshift barrier. He blinks, and the letters of ‘Grimoire of the Frozen Wastes’ return to their original places. Magic? Exhaustion? Does it matter, in the end? It’s not like he’s ever going to unclothe some poor frostbitten maiden and crawl under the furs with her while wearing only his smalls. 

  
  


His cheeks heat when he reads the next passage. Wait, wait, wait. Why  _ does  _ Asmund Ash-oak barge in when the servants tell him their lady is otherwise engaged and why is he stripping off his... 

  
  


Oh. 

  
  


“Alistair.” 

  
  


Cheeks heating up, Alistair shuts the book and more or less chucks it away. It falls open on a decidedly risque illustration of lady Alfhild and her maidservant Brenda in the stables, and... is she holding... a horse’s...?! 

  
  


“Uh... it’s Samson’s, I swear.”

  
  


Flames, why is it that Sebastian always seems to be around when Alistair’s thoughts stray to more… sacrilegious paths? Or when he’s reading ‘harrowing tales of the frozen wastes’? Maker. He knew he should’ve grabbed Genitivi’s treatise on the Hissing Wastes instead. Or that book Anders recommended to him about lightning. Lightning isn’t sacrilegious. Or animate. Or prone to frostbite. It’s tingly, though. Morrigan kept ‘accidently’ tossing her lightning bolts in his direction whenever he was in the vicinity. 

  
  


Ha! The looks on those thugs’ faces when he strolled right into their half-hearted excuse for an ambush and said ‘Oh, hello, sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll just be on my way and-’ ZAP! Swoosh! ZING! IEEE- glaaaaaaah!

  
  


Sebastian frowns, sunlight blazing off his ridiculous white armor. “Do I have something on my face?” 

  
  


“Huh?” 

 

Blinking, Sebastian brushes his hair out of his eyes. “You were… smirking. I simply assumed-” 

  
  


Alistair spreads his fingers.  “Oh, no, no, no!” He shakes his head, chuckling. “That’s just… me. Thinking funny things. It’s… Because I’m the funny guy, you know?” 

  
  


Alistair closes his eyes. Urgh. Dramatic failure: accomplished. Does the Templar Order give badges or medallions for Most Idiotic Idiot of the Year? Hm… No, if they did, he would’ve won one for every year in the monastery. Would’ve taken Duncan multiple trips just to get all the gold to Ostagar. Hey! Wade could’ve crafted some gold armor for him! That would’ve been sweet. Too bad Lyna returned Cailan’s armor to Anora. 

  
  


Lyna. 

  
  


“... sometimes it can be comforting to… Are you sure you’re all right?” 

  
  


“Huh?” Alistair’s snaps to attention, blinking owlishly at Sebastian. Sebastian sits against the crate, putting a new string on his bow. It’s a nifty little thing, though Varric’s crossbow is nicer. Though Varric did look at him strangely when he’d asked if he could borrow Bianca once. Andraste’s buttcheeks, he just wanted to hold something other than a sword! 

 

.... Isabela had suggested… a sword? Leliana had giggled like mad and Lyna had choked on her ale. There was something he’d missed, but what? 

  
  


He gives himself a little shake. Sebastian. Right next to him. Talking. Focus. 

It’s not like it’s Zevran talking about roots. Or what’s-her-name Launcet about Nathaniel Howe. Who’s an assassin.  Because Lyna collects them like floors collect dust. 

  
  


“... if you require assistance with anything … the Chantry has … Evalina’s orphans …” 

  
  


Ooooh, riiiiiight. Nathaniel Howe. That’s why Sebastian looks so familiar! 

  
  


Wait. Howe had how many sons, again? Three? One died in the Blight. The one betrothed to… Something Something Cousland. Ali? Elia? Elijah? 

  
  
  


“... could do with some new oil … heard Ser Leon talk about bringing blankets to the Alienage …” 

  
  


… Anja? 

  
  


Wait! Howe many sons does Howe how? Hehehehe. 

  
  


“Are you listening to me?” 

  
  


Alistair winces, heat rising to his cheeks. “Assisted blankets. Oiled orphans to the Alienage. Got it.” 

  
  


Sebastian blinks. Clears his throat. Finishes oiling his bow. Slings it over his shoulder and dusts off his hands. “I… believe I’ll leave you to your ponderings. Maker guide your step, Alistair. And your mind.” 

  
  


And he just walks away like that? Why? What did he do wrong? Oh, maker. This always happens, doesn’t it? Alistair sighs and drops his head into his hands. Cullen would’ve helped untangle his mind, always making time for him, always there to help him make a schedule so he wouldn’t lunge from thing to thing.

  
  


Tears sting his eyes. His bottom lip stings when he bites down. 

 

“Sod this!” He slams his fist on the crate. Splinters dig into his knuckles and he hisses. Great. “Aagh!” He flows down on the ground and starts picking Maker-forsaken splinters from his flesh. 

  
  


The one time Cullen was lucid, he’d asked for someone named Solona. And he’d tried. He’d tried to find her, but there were no records about a Solona anywhere in Kirkwall, other than a Blooming Rose girl whose real name turned out to be Margot, and she’d never even met Cullen. Seen him around the city, sure, but never in the Rose. 

  
  


He’d tried asking Meredith. She’d started and sucked in a deep breath. And walked away and shouted “No! Sorry, no!” when he’d wanted to go after her. 

  
  


She obviously knew who Solona was. 

  
  


Kinloch. Cullen had been in Kinloch. Maybe Solona was a Chantry girl? Or a fellow Templar? Or… maybe she was a mage. 

  
  


His heart gives a squeeze and jumps to his throat. There was only one reason why Meredith refused to even speak of Solona if Solona was a mage. She was either Tranquil or dead. 

  
  


Alistair isn’t sure which option would be better. 

  
  


Either way, the Tranquil were… different, somehow. Not at all like Owain from Kinloch Hold, or the clerk in Wonders of Thedas. 

  
  


It’s almost like… like it started with Elsa, and Elsa passed whatever it was on to the rest of them. But what? Maker knows what. As far as he knows, all Meredith does is talk to them. Like they’re persons. 

  
  


Is that it? Is it as simple as that? Or… do they just mimic her? 

  
  


Alistair sighs. 

  
  


He could just ask. But Elsa is terrifying and Niana… he tried asking her something once and Niana just sighed and glowered until he shuffled right back out the door and away.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
